


...after all this time, it's still you.

by littlemarionette (orphan_account)



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 94,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/littlemarionette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, love just isn't enough. But Kelley wishes it were.</p><p>"For Hope—<br/>Remember the signs and believe the signs. Nothing else matters.<br/>- Kell."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. it still hurts.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! This is my first fic. I hope it doesn't seem too angsty so far. (I promise it will get better.)

It still hurts.

As much as she wants to say it doesn’t, as much as she wants to be okay again, to feel okay…it still hurts.

Hope is starting to worry that maybe it always will.

She is especially worried that it will always hurt as the plane begins its shaky descent into Washington D.C.

Hope has never liked flying. There was a time when she found it embarrassing, her fear of airplanes—she flew all the time, she was a grown woman, she was Hope Solo for God’s sake, and Hope Solo wasn’t supposed to be scared of anything because Hope Solo was a savior, a legend, a rock. She could take a Benadryl, wash it down with some lukewarm water, and be out the entire flight, headphones in and nobody bothering her.

It’s different now. She’s different now. And she doesn’t want to admit it—to herself, to her therapist, to her team—but she's soft. She’ll be damned if she ever admits it, but she’s soft now. And she’s strangely okay with it. So she doesn’t take a Benadryl during the safety briefing or put in her headphones. She doesn’t hide her audible gasp when the plane makes a sudden jolt and her stomach feels like it was left at 37,000 feet. She doesn’t refrain from grasping the arm rests and holding on so tightly her knuckles are white. And she doesn’t pull away when the old woman in the seat next to her puts a soft hand on her arm.

“I never did like the landing either,” the woman says sympathetically, offering Hope a gentle smile. “This your first time flying?”

Hope thinks carefully about her response, because that’s what she does now. She thinks before she speaks—thinks before she does everything. And she has to remind herself—you are not old Hope anymore. You are not supposed to cold to the world anymore. So she smiles back at the woman and explains, “It’s actually probably my five hundred and first time. I’ve just never been good with the takeoff…or the landing…or the time in between takeoff and landing.”

The woman laughs…maybe a little too loud, Hope thinks.

It hurts.

She grits her teeth. "Be nice. You are not supposed to be cold to world anymore," she says in her mind.

“Oh sweetie, it only gets worse!” the woman says, a little too close to Hope’s face. Normally Hope would have said something back, something dry and sarcastic, along the lines of "thanks for the encouragement, but she instead just offers a pained smile and reminds herself that she is not old Hope anymore.

The aircraft touches down on the tarmac a few minutes after the expected arrival time. The landing is bumpy, almost scarily so, the man a row in front of Hope agrees, and they have to wait on the runway for an extra ten minutes for gate space.

Hope is relieved.

When they finally get to the gate, she is suddenly grateful for her “C” group boarding pass that seemed so degrading at first—she is an Olympic gold medalist, she has flown hundreds of times, she cannot fly unless she has a window seat—because it landed her a seat at the very back of the plane. She takes her sweet time letting everyone else off before her, telling herself it’s polite and noble and the right thing to do, and new Hope always tries to do the right thing. So she slowly slips her shoes back on, slowly zips To Kill a Mockingbird into her bag, slowly gets her duffle bag down from the overhead bin. She is the last one off the plane, and she makes sure to thank the flight crew thoroughly for getting her to her destination safely.

 

The airport is too bright.

That’s what Hope notes before anything else, before she notices the nauseating smell of a greasy pizza joint and Auntie Anne’s pretzels, before she notices that she’s going the wrong way toward the baggage carousel, before she notices the elderly woman from the plane hugging her family as they all talk too loud and cry.

It hurts.

The second she leaves the jetway and steps into the airport, she’s squinting. The sun is flooding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows and it’s too damn bright. Her eyes are watering and she is blinking hard to adjust, but it’s too bright. It’s too bright and her eyes hurt and her nose is running now and she's feeling overwhelmed. It’s too bright and the people are too loud and there are too many of them and she’s lost, damn it. She wants to go buy a ticket straight back to Seattle, she wants to go home and just let her team be disappointed and she wants to tell them she got the stomach bug and couldn’t come.

But new Hope keeps her promises, and she promised them—she promised Abby and Christie and Ashlyn and…and damn it, she promised Kelley too—that she would be there.

So new Hope takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, tries to ignore the smell of cinnamon sugar and pizza grease, and wills herself to not lose it in the middle of the airport. New Hope finds an airport map and takes the right turn for her baggage claim. New Hope does not take the easy way out and sprint to find the nearest airline ticket counter. And New Hope does not send a group text about her nonexistent stomach bug.

The baggage claim is mostly deserted by the time Hope has found her way there. She’s taken her time; only three or four bags remain circling the carousel. Nearby, a few clusters of people wait for the airport shuttle with their suitcases an arm’s length away, ready to be whisked onto a crowded shuttle bus and taken to their destination. For a moment, Hope does not see her black U.S. Soccer suitcase and wants to take it as a sign—the airline lost her luggage, and she can’t stay on the other side of the country without her luggage, so she should just go back home—but it is the next bag to make a lap on the carousel.

Hope sighs. She’s officially run out of excuses.

Outside the airport, the first thing Hope notices is that it’s hot. Not just “hot” either: it’s sticky hot, almost sickeningly so. It’s hot and there’s no breeze and it’s humid and she feels sick. When she left Seattle it was pleasant, 70 degrees and slightly cool with the gentle breeze. She’d dressed in black skinny pants, a cream v-neck, a denim shirt over it for the plane ride (she always got cold on planes), and tan booties…and now she is painfully aware of the heat as she stands outside Ronald Reagan International Airport. It’s hot and she's hungry and…and God, is that a headache she feels coming on? The three-hour time difference between Seattle and D.C. is suddenly having an effect on Hope. She’s hungry and she’s hot and she’s tired and she just wants to—

“HOPE!!!!”

The sound of a familiar voice jolts Hope from her pity party, and she’s suddenly ashamed for feeling so sorry for herself. She looks up from the crack in the concrete she’s been studying for five minutes and forces herself to search for the voice’s owner. "You’re happy to be here. You are happy to see your team—your family—and you are not supposed to be cold to the world anymore," she says to herself. Old Hope would have pretended to not hear Ashlyn, who was still a few cars back. Old Hope probably would not have even been there, though, waiting outside an airport for her ride and only a fifteen minute drive away from the rest of her team.

Instead, new Hope immediately finds Ashlyn’s black Jeep and pulls out the handle on her suitcase. She does not think twice before she follows Ashlyn’s voice to the car. She puts on a smile and walks purposefully toward her number two goalkeeper—her friend, she reminds herself. Ashlyn is not just another goalkeeper, she’s her friend. She doesn’t run, she doesn’t jog, but she also doesn’t trudge along.

Ashlyn is already outside the Jeep, sunglasses pushed on top of her head and sleeves shoved up to her elbows. The top of the Jeep is gone (Ashlyn always was a sucker for this kind of sickeningly hot weather, Hope knows) and the doors are off too. (Hope is nervous about riding in a car…with no doors…with Ashlyn, who is a crazy driver anyway, but she pretends not to be.) 

When Hope reaches her, she doesn’t even have time to talk before Ashlyn is crushing her in a warm hug. “Welcome to D.C., buddy.”

It hurts.

Hope tells herself it’s just the way it should be, that when you miss someone so much, it hurts a lot to see them again—it’s supposed to hurt, love. It’s supposed to hurt when you feel loved. But it doesn’t feel like it should. It doesn’t feel like saving a penalty kick or ice cream on a hot day or a swimming pool in August or fireflies after dusk or laughing with her team until her ribs hurt and her face ached. It feels like a million words that nobody will ever say. It feels like trying to save something that’s already gone. It feels like the empty burn of alcohol in her belly. It feels like trying too hard.

And then, before Hope can think too long, Ashlyn is tossing her bag into the back of the Jeep and smiling too big and clapping her on the back. She motions for Hope to get in the passenger seat (Hope assumes she would have opened the door for her, but there are no doors to speak of) and then jumps into the driver’s side.

With a grin, Ashlyn puts her shades back on and fastens her seatbelt. “Click it or ticket, Solo. Better buckle up if you’re in my car.”

Hope beats her to it. She’s in D.C. to celebrate a happy moment with her team, not lose her life before she even sees them.

 

The drive to Ashlyn’s townhouse in Capitol Hill is not long. Hope is grateful for that—not that she doesn’t enjoy talking with Ashlyn (or rather, listening to Ashlyn talk while she holds onto the frame of the door and does yoga breathing), but she fears for her life more than a few times as Ashlyn speeds up to almost 90 on the freeway to swing around someone she claims “isn’t going fast enough.” Another part of her wishes she’d flown into Dulles instead, so the drive would be longer. If she’d had longer to calculate how she would respond to seeing her, maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much.

Most everyone is already there when Ashlyn and Hope arrive at the townhouse (which, Hope is quick to note, is painted pink and is surrounded by matching little condos that are blue, red, and yellow.) Hope doesn’t have to be inside to know this—the windows are open and cheery voices and laughter are flowing out like music to her ears. In the time she takes to pause, stare at the happy pink house, and think about what is waiting inside, Ashlyn has already unloaded her suitcase and is making her way to the front door.

“You coming, Solo?”

(Ashlyn has always called her Solo, not Hope. Hope will never admit it, but she finds it rather amusing.)

Of course, even if Hope hadn’t come to the door, the girls would have come to her. Before she can reach to front steps, she is being crowded with hugs and attacked with hey Hopes. She can’t even distinguish one embrace from another. There are two sets of arms tangled around her, then five, and maybe one let go. She can’t keep up and she’s already starting feel overwhelmed.

It hurts.

She gives them all a second to calm down.

(She gives herself a second to think, You are supposed to be here. They want you here. You are happy to be here.)

Standing before her are Tobin, Alex, Sydney, Pinoe, Abby, and Whitney. They are all flashing her 100-watt smiles, and their eyes are all bubbling with excitement. Hope prays that her grin matches theirs and won’t betray her.

“Tobin lost at chess,” Alex finally blurts.

“To ASHLYN’S GRANDMA!” Sydney all but yells.

Hope can tell how happy they all are to see her. She would be lying if she said she wasn’t happy to see them too. She wants to hear all about how Tobin was finally defeated in her own game, how Ashlyn’s grandma had managed to dethrone the Chess Queen. She wants to listen to Abby complain about how Chipotle is out of carnitas (again) and Pinoe whine about how “unfair” it is that Sydney always takes the good bed in hotels. But most of all, she wants someone to answer the question she hasn’t asked yet.

“Boxxy is in the kitchen icing cupcakes,” Whit explains as Hope follows them in. “And Christie, Cheney, A-Rod, HAO, and Becky are at Whole Foods.” She pauses and whirls around, putting one finger to her lips. “Shh…Carli’s napping on the couch.”

Not to Hope’s surprise, Carli is indeed sprawled on the couch, looking like she’s been there all day. She tosses a decorative pillow at her friend. “Hey, lazy. I’m here.”

There is a muffled groan into the leather of the sofa. “Shut up…”

But Carli still lifts her head from where it’s evidently been for hours and manages a crooked, half-asleep glare. (Hope thinks she looks like she’s having a stroke, but she would never say it to her face. She also makes a mental note of the small pool of drool near where Carli’s mouth had been hanging open. Blackmail for later.)

The giggles die off as Carli flops back onto the couch and promptly drifts off again, and the only sounds left are the hum of the mixer in the kitchen and the birds singing outside. Where an awkward silence would have filled the space, Pinoe is quick to start a conversation about absolutely nothing. (Hope notices even though she pretends not to. It’s oddly comforting that her friends don’t want the silence either.)

 

Still, Hope is glad the meaningless chatter can stop the second she notices Ali standing in the corner of the kitchen, barefoot and tan, licking the icing off a Pampered Chef spatula. Her back is to Hope, and for a moment Hope is overwhelmed. Ali is in the kitchen, doing dishes, barefoot, and the domesticity is almost too much. It’s too comfortable, it’s too real, it’s too close to what Hope almost had.

It hurts.

And then Ali turns around, spots Hope, and breaks into a giant smile. “Well look what the cat dragged in,” she comments drily, handing the dish towel to Boxxy.

Hope is relieved. “Hey Kriegs.” The familiarity of the hug masks what both know is beneath it—pain, sympathy, a silent apology—what neither of them want to feel. Ali’s always been good at that, empathizing. “I can’t believe it’s already been a year,” she whispers as she glances toward Boxxy and the nauseatingly pastel-colored cupcakes.

Fortunately, Ali always knows what to say—Hope knows she hates rambling too—and rolls her eyes dramatically as she takes the tray of cupcakes to the fridge. “Tell me about it. That’s how it goes, though. At least that’s what Pearcie and Boxxy and A-Rod keep telling me. One day you’re sleep deprived and clueless, the next you’re sleep deprived and clueless but your kid is one so you pretend not to be.”

“Where is the little one?” Hope has only been in the townhouse for all of seven minutes, but she knows that Ashlyn and Ali’s baby can’t be far. (He never is. Hope remembers the day that Ali and Ashlyn both swore up and down that they would NEVER be THOSE parents, but clearly they were both done for the second they met little Beckett Rhodes.)

Ali glances casually over her shoulder and motions toward the backyard. “He’s swinging out back with Kyle and some of the girls. You’ll be lucky if you can get him away. I think they’re having more fun than he is.”

Hope nods and hops to sit on the countertop. “He’s so incredibly lucky, Ali. I hope you know that. His moms are the best and he is so, so loved. Ashlyn too. I’m glad she has you.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Ali replies, taking another tray of vanilla cupcakes from Boxxy. “I wouldn’t have either of them if not for you guys.”

There is a lot of pain and a lot of truth in that statement, and Hope winces. She knows how close Ali came to losing Ashlyn simply because they were two of the most hard-headed women Hope has ever met. With a little pushing from the team (okay, so they had physically hauled Ali to Ashlyn’s room at camp a few years back and held the door shut so neither could escape until they had fixed their problems, but obviously the plan had worked so no harm, no foul) there had been a wedding right after the World Cup. They’d all been a little surprised when Ashlyn had been the one to get pregnant, claiming that she needed a break from soccer and that she would be in Hope’s shadow for the rest of time so why wait to start a family, but all was forgotten when Ashlyn was in a terrible car wreck a few weeks before Beckett was supposed to be born. Had Hope, Becky, and (Hope gulps) Kelley not been in the car with Ashlyn and kept her from bleeding to death, there would be no Beckett to speak of—nor would there be an Ashlyn, and, they all know, an Ali. There was no way Ali would have lived to see today if Ashlyn had died, though she has never said so.

 

Ali and Boxxy take the last two trays of cupcakes to the fridge, and Hope takes the moment to think carefully. She’s seen Ashlyn and Ali, Tobin, Alex, Whitney, Pinoe, Abby, Sydney, Carli, and Boxxy. Christie, Amy, Becky, Lauren, and Heather are at Whole Foods, presumably trying to stock up on enough food to feed a small army. That leaves Christen Press, Morgan Brian, Julie Johnston, Meghan Klingenberg, Rachel Van Hollebeke, Lori Chalupny, and Crystal Dunn. Hope does some quick math—she’s missing someone. Did she remember to count herself? Yes. So she was missing someone, and…and shit. Had Ali said whether or not she was coming? Yes, Ali had emphasized that THE WHOLE TEAM was going to be at Beckett’s first birthday party, so Hope HAD to come. She was missing someone.

Kelley.

And with a panic rising in her belly, Hope does some more quick thinking. Kling, Buehler, Press, Morgan, Julie, Lori, and Dunn are probably outside with Ali’s brother, fighting over who gets to push Beckett in his swing next. Everyone else is accounted for except...Kelley.

“She’s upstairs napping.”

It’s Ali’s voice that brings her back to reality. Hope tries not to gasp for air as she realizes she’s been holding her breath for a while now.

“Wh—wha—I…I don’t know what you mean,” Hope sputters, feeling her face flush scarlet.

“Yeah, you do. You’ve been looking around this place like there’s a bomb waiting to go off and you need to dismantle it before it erupts.” Ali and Boxxy reappear, and Hope is able to see clearly the flour and pastel frosting on the fronts of both of their shirts. She almost makes a sarcastic comment, but then reminds herself that new Hope is nice.

Boxxy stares at Hope for no less than twenty seconds, and Hope squirms beneath her gaze. It feels like fire burning into her. “The plane ride wore her out. You should just let her sleep,” she finally tells her, dusting her hands off on her shorts before leaving to join the others in playing a prank on Carli as she sleeps.

“Everyone thinks it’s my fault,” Hope thinks aloud quietly as she watches Boxxy take a spot on the floor beside Alex. She doesn’t even realize she spoke until Ali hops onto the counter beside her.

“You could tell them the truth.”

The words are a reminder that only two people know the truth—well, three, because Hope knows that Ali tells Ashlyn everything, just like Ashlyn tells Ali everything.

It hurts.

“I couldn’t do that, not to her.” Hope is solemn as she looks at Ali. They both know that she is right, because she can’t do that to her—because Kelley is funny and sweet and bubbly and caring and loving and friendly and happy, because Kelley is innocent and young and naive, because Kelley is Kelley. “It’s easier to be the bad guy. Not that they would believe me, anyway.”

Ali sighs. “But you could. I believed you. Ashlyn knows and she believes you.” She pauses and her jaw suddenly tightens. “I don’t know why you refuse to accept the fact that you deserve a happy ending, Hope. And don’t feed me that ‘in my family we don’t do happy endings’ crap. Because you are not your past and you are not that person anymore. You are a good person and you deserve love and you deserve happiness, and one of these days you’re going to wake up and be so miserable and alone that you will realize just how little you’ve actually lived.”

Hope winces. Ali always says things like they are.

It hurts.

Ali sees that. “Sorry,” she mumbles quietly. “I just…you just feel like maybe you deserved what happened to you, and it’s not true. Nobody ever deserves a hurt like that.”

“And Ashlyn deserved you yelling at her that you weren’t in love with her anymore? She deserved to be hurt like that, to the point where she felt like she shouldn’t be alive anymore?” Hope responds bitterly.

Instantly, Ali’s head drops and her breath hitches. Her fists are clenched at her sides.

It hurts.

“I’m sorry,” Hope whispers, regretting her words deeply. She feels sick at her stomach, because new Hope is not bitter and does not bring up things from the past. New Hope does not talk harshly to friends, especially friends like Ali. “That was a long time ago, and you were hurting too. None of that matters anymore. You know that.” But the way Ali is trying to hide the tears falling down her cheeks tells Hope that it does still matter, at least to her.

“Hope, I…”

“No, you were a different person then. You were scared,” Hope backtracks.

“I wish those years had never happened. I wish I hadn’t been so scared to just love who I love. I wish I had been able to show Ashlyn that I wasn’t ashamed of her. I wish I could take back every word I said. You can say it doesn’t matter anymore, and maybe it doesn’t matter to Ashlyn now but it still matters to me because I don’t ever, ever, ever want to hurt her again, and I don’t want anyone else to be hurt like that. Especially you.”

The truth hurts. It all hurts.

Hope lets herself feel everything for a minute. Her heart is racing and the tears are in her eyes, and she lets them spill over because she’s soft now. She’s a little bit broken and a little less sharp around the edges, so she cries. She cries because she hurts, and she’s afraid she will always hurt, and she cries because Ali is right. She wouldn’t wish this hurt on her worst enemy.

 

It’s a little while later, and the mood is happier again. The others got back from the grocery store, a few more had left to go explore D.C. at night, and yet another four had gone to their hotel for the night. Kyle, Ali’s brother, had made some type of fabulous chicken and pasta for supper, and HAO had insisted on buying some wine ice cream for dessert that would go perfectly with the bottle of merlot that Abby had brought from home. It’s still warm outside (Ali calls it “warm,” but Hope still considers it hot) and the French doors to the patio are open wide to let in a very slight breeze. Hope had expected more angst, more testy glances, more whispering, but it had all been surprisingly nice and familiar.

Ali, Ashlyn, Hope, Carli, Sydney, Kling, Whitney, Becky, Christie, Abby, Boxxy, Morgan, and Cheney are left, spread around the living room as the sun drops lower and lower on the horizon. Beckett is already bathed and ready for bed, snuggled against Abby’s chest as his brown eyes become heavy. Carli has already pointed out several times that he’s probably exhausted from being passed around and kissed all day, but they all know that they wouldn’t have it any other way. In a strange sense, it feels like Beckett is kind of the team’s baby, even more so than Rylie and Reece Rampone, who have been around since before some of the players. Maybe it’s the fact that they had all been rooting for Ali and Ashlyn from the beginning, maybe it’s the fact that he wouldn't be here if not for the team and the fact that a few of them had kept him alive.

There is only laughter and lazy conversation, bare feet and tan legs slung over one another, and a happy buzz brought about by wine. Some are strewn across the sofa and chaise lounge, some are draped over each other on the floor. The way they are talking is like they haven’t seen each other in years—they are drinking each other up, making up for lost time, desperately trying to fit everything into one breath in case they don’t get to say it. It’s beautiful, Hope thinks, the way they genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

It’s Hope’s second glass of wine, and she’s laughing with her head in Carli’s lap, staring up at the ceiling. It feels like it should. It feels happy and warm and wonderful. It does not feel like grasping at thin air and memories and begging them to remember how things used to be. It does not feel like trying to save something that is already gone. It feels right. Her belly is full with good food & wine and her heart is filled with good company. For a little while—a few hours at least—Hope has forgotten that it still hurts. In fact, she’s feeling rather delicious thanks to the wine (delicious enough to forget that Kelley still has not resurfaced from the nap she’d been taking since Hope had arrived.)

She’s on her third glass of wine and second scoop of wine ice cream when Kelley comes in.

Sydney is telling another story about Dom and Boss (the only things she talks about these days) and animatedly throwing her hands around for emphasis, and Ashlyn is tossing out a slightly slurred response about how the wine had better not spill on her new wood floor, and Cheney is the first to notice that Kelley has sleepily trotted into the living room. No amount of alcohol can change her eyesight—she nudges Morgan hard in the ribs.

“Kelley’s awake,” she mutters to the youngest of their group, jerking her head toward the landing of the stairway.

Morgan indiscreetly turns to stare at Kelley. “Well shit. What should we do about that?” she asks in nothing short of a stage whisper.

Her voice is a little too loud, her words a little too slurred, her eyes a little too wide. Every eye in the room turns to where Morgan has directed her gaze.

Ashlyn is the only one who does not smile at Kelley. (Well, except for Hope.)

Instead, Hope is staring, her jaw slack and her eyes round. It’s been a while since she last saw her ex-girlfriend (her teammate, Hope has to remind herself, Kelley is on the team.) Suddenly Hope feels way too sober. She feels seven years old, she feels naked, she feels vulnerable, she feels like she’s the only person in the room. Her throat is dry and she can’t swallow, can’t move. She feels anchored to the floor, trapped, like she’s paralyzed. It’s like all the air has been sucked from the room, and she has that same panicked feeling she always gets when the plane drops too suddenly or too harshly.

Because it’s been six months and Kelley still looks fine. Because it’s been six months and there’s a diamond on Kelley’s left ring finger. Because it’s been six months and Kelley can still make Hope feel like she’s worthless. Because it’s been six months and Hope still can remember all the little things Kelley does that annoy her (she eats Kraft mac and cheese, she doesn’t wear sunscreen, she takes all the covers, she’s always on her phone while Hope talks, she pets every dog she sees, she always has energy, she doesn’t eat the crust on her sandwiches, she only likes Shiner beer, she burps like a man and laughs about it, she plays piano at three in the morning when she can’t sleep.) Because it’s been six months and Hope still feels anger burning in her gut like she just took a shot of tequila. Because it’s been six months and Kelley can’t even try to hide it anymore. Because it’s been six months and it still hurts. Because it’s been six months and—

Kelley comes further into the living room and rubs the sleep from her eyes. Her hair is in her typical sloppy bun, curls flying in every direction after a very long nap. Her shorts are a little too short; the tops of her legs are stark white in contrast to her tanned quads and calves. The old Stanford hoodie she wears with everything has fallen down on one shoulder and is stretched across her torso.

Hope blinks hard. It’s been six months and she still doesn’t want to believe it. It’s been six months and Kelley still has the braided friendship bracelet Hope gave her tied around her ankle. (Hope has hers tucked into the pocket of her favorite jeans.) It’s been six months and Kelley is definitely, most certainly, without a doubt, pregnant with a baby that she definitely, most certainly, without a doubt did not make with Hope.

She swallows the lump in her throat before it betrays her.

It’s been six months and it still hurts.


	2. never hurt you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hope and Kelley manage to avoid each other like the plague. Also, Ashlyn hates liars.

Ashlyn hates liars.

It doesn’t matter what the lies were about—did you brush your teeth, is your room clean, did you drive drunk, do you love me, am I pretty. She hates liars. She hates fibs and stories and white lies and dancing around the truth. (Ali often jokes that she should have been a lawyer or a judge. The truth would come out if Ashlyn was in charge of getting to the bottom of it all.)

But for as much as she has tried not to, Ashlyn had always loathed, despised, and completely hated liars. She once wondered why it was that she couldn’t stand lying, and all she’d been able to come up with was that she had been lied to for as long as she could remember. It had started when she was little and she would ask her mom if she loved her. (“Of course I love you, honey. You’re the best thing I ever did.”) Her mom walked out on her when she was 5. Then she would ask her grandma if her mom was ever coming back. (“Of course she is, honey. She loves you. You’re all she has going for her.”) She was 17 before she realized that her mom was gone for good. After that it was her brother Chris when she would ask for reassurance and protection. (“Of course I’ll always look out for you, sis. Harris blood runs deep. We’re thick as thieves.”) Chris had moved out and made Ashlyn’s life hell when she was 15. Then it was her teachers and coaches when she would wonder if she would ever amount to anything. (“Of course you will, Ashlyn. Your time is coming. Just wait another few months.”) She had been 26 before she had seen success.

Ashlyn was predisposed to hate liars.

So, when Ali whispers the truth to her one night in mid-March, her voice quiet and thick with emotion, Ashlyn can’t help but hate Kelley O’Hara. (She also is a bit angry with Hope, who knows that Ali is bad with secrets and is far too kind and sweet and good-hearted to ever say anything to anyone else but Ashlyn, and she has to remind herself that—for once—Hope is the victim.) It’s hard for Ali to tell and hard for Ashlyn to hear. As Ali cuddles closer to her beneath the sheets, exhausted from the effort it took to keep the secret for only that long, Ashlyn holds her and presses gentle kisses to her shoulders and reminds her that she will never hurt her like Kelley hurt Hope.

It’s January when everything changes. One day Kelley and Hope are fine, the next they aren’t. Whatever happened is throwing off Hope’s game. She misses easy saves, yells especially loud at her back line, and curses loudly any time she messes up. Kelley is having the best training sessions of her life. She is sliding into tackles cleanly before the directions are barked from between the goal posts, streaking up and down the field at lightning speed, getting touches on passes that Abby and Alex have sent toward each other. And then, after camp, Kelley is just gone. She gets on the plane to Georgia, not New Jersey, and then she's just gone.

It’s months before anyone hears from Kelley again, and by then everyone is so busy with NWSL preseason and family and national team friendlies and training camps that the whole thing has been brushed under the rug. Hope and Kelley were together, and now they’re not—and of course it has to be Hope’s fault. (It always is Hope, who flies too close to the sun and never filters her words and is a bit too brazen and a bit too talented for her own good.) They all make excuses for why Kelley didn’t call or text or show up at training camps or make the roster for any matches. (She’s heartbroken, of course. She got hurt by Hope, just like everyone warned her she would. She needs time away from Hope before she can see her again.)

But then Kelley is there, in Kansas City for a media summit, and she’s…well, she’s fine. She doesn’t act like she dropped off the face of the planet for a whole three months. She doesn’t act like she scared them all half to death, responding to text messages only with the automated “read” receipts, rejecting phone calls after only one or two rings, tweeting and instagramming only photos of Georgia and being home and Bible verses. She doesn’t act like she’s had her heart broken by Hope. (She hasn’t, Ashlyn thinks spitefully to herself. Hope wasn’t to blame for this one.)

No, Kelley is fine. She looks happy and healthy and just like Kelley, except she’s not. She’s got a slightly swollen belly and a boy in her hip pocket. His name is Brandon, she tells them proudly, and he’s from Georgia. (Figures, Ashlyn scoffs in her head, that Kelley would rebound with a cute fraternity boy from Georgia.) He’s tan and tall and fit, and he wears pastel polo shirts and chino shorts and Sperry boatshoes. He’s got a perfect haircut and smells like expensive cologne and the sun. And he’s totally not Kelley’s type at all, but nobody says a word, because to them it’s still Hope’s fault. They’re “really serious” according to a rather giggly Kelley, and they’re going to have a baby in November. (Kelley hopes it’s a boy so he can be “just like Brandon” and Brandon hopes it’s a girl so she can be as “wonderful as Kelley.” Ashlyn hopes it has two heads and eleven toes.)

It’s another two weeks before Ashlyn agrees to let Kelley be invited to Beckett’s first birthday party. They’ve been fighting over it for too long, and Ashlyn is suddenly too tired and too upset to argue with Ali anymore. She gives in and tells her to send Kelley and Brandon an invitation since Ali’s not going to listen and will send one no matter what Ashlyn’s final verdict is. (“I didn’t want to have to win like that, baby. I’m just trying to do the right thing,” Ali tells her after she is done pouting. She’s way too good at the guilt trip for Ashlyn’s liking.) So the card goes into the mail on a hot, late June afternoon, and they hold their breath waiting for a response. Part of Ali hopes that Ashlyn is right and Kelley won’t come. 

But then Kelley calls Ali on the tenth of July, and she is over-the-moon happy. Hell yeah she’s coming to Beckett’s birthday bash! Hell yeah she wants to see the team! Hell yeah she (and Brandon) will be there! What does Beckett want for his birthday? What should she bring to wear? Should she book a hotel room? She’s so excited! She can’t believe he’s already almost one! She’s so glad she was in the car with Ashlyn that day almost a year ago! (Has it already been a year?! It doesn’t feel like a year. By the way, can you ask Ashlyn if she had trouble sleeping in her third trimester?) And that makes it official—Kelley and Brandon are coming to Washington D.C. for Beckett’s birthday, and Ali invites them to stay with her and Ashlyn. (“Brandon is in law school and I’m not currently drawing a national team salary, so I don’t know if we can swing plane tickets and a hotel,” Kelley tells her sadly. Ali feels guilty and extends the olive branch, regretting it .3 seconds later when Ashlyn blows up at her for putting them in the middle of Kelley’s mess.)

It takes three more days for Ashlyn to call Hope and guilt trip her into making the trip. She doesn’t want any drama at Beckett’s birthday party because Ali planned the whole thing and wants it to be perfect, and Ali is perfect, but if Kelley’s invited Hope has to be too. So she takes Ali’s stubborn advice and “puts on her big girl panties” and calls Hope. They don’t talk about much, the weather and national camp and call ups and dogs and Beckett and Ali and—oh, hey, that reminds me, did you get your invitation to Beckett’s first birthday? because there’s no way Ali’s letting you miss that one. The WHOLE TEAM will be there and that means you’re off her list if you’re a no-show, plus you kinda saved my life and I owe you a ton so you can stay with us instead of getting a hotel room. (She regrets the offer about an hour later, when a horrified Ali tells her that Kelley and Brandon are staying with them too and that’s ridiculous, they can’t have Hope and Kelley under the same roof!)

That’s how it comes to be that, on August 3rd, 2017, Hope and Kelley are face-to-face in Ashlyn and Ali’s living room, with Hope a little wine drunk and Kelley a little stunned and the rest of the team a lot uncomfortable.

Cheney is the first to look away, her cheeks stained bright red with laughter and alcohol and a flush that has crept up her neck. The silence after Kelley’s not-so-grand entrance is long and uncomfortable, and nobody quite knows what to do or say. (Except Ali. Ali knows what to do. She has downed her glass of wine in about five seconds flat and is reaching for the bottle to pour another.)

Sydney is a little less than subtle about her feelings. She clears her throat loudly and coughs indiscreetly. “Weeelllll…” she drawls, staring between Hope and Kelley, “this has been fun and all, but I’m gonna…I’m gonna call it a night.”

That’s all it takes for the rest of the girls to follow suit. Abby suddenly glances down at her watch as if to emphasize how late it’s gotten in the last two minutes. “Wow, it is late. We should turn in.”

And then they are all helping each other to their feet, picking up wine glasses and empty ice cream bowls and trying not to trip over the tension in the room. They’re calling Uber for rides (nobody is coherent enough to drive, Ashlyn tells them firmly) and they’re hugging each other goodnight and calling happy birthday to Beckett over their shoulders. And then Brandon is at Kelley’s side again, smiling his Colgate-toothpaste-ad smile and offering to shuttle them to the hotel. (Of course he would be a Southern gentleman and give them a ride home, Ashlyn says drily to herself. Kelley’s got a real winner.)

Ashlyn bitterly watches them leave, wishing she could follow them right out the door and leave Kelley and Hope to hash it out themselves. But Kelley has not acknowledged Hope, and Hope is distracting herself with helping Ali gather all the plates from supper, and Ashlyn is left staring awkwardly at Brandon, who made sure all the girls got in the Uber cars and had their room keys before he came back inside. She shoots him her best, most intimidating glare—the one normally reserved for when she’s in the goal and someone is streaking toward her with a ball at their feet—and he returns it with a warm, charming grin that looks like he copied and pasted it from a mouthwash commercial. (Damn it, he is charming. Why does he have to be so charming?)

Ali has busied herself with collecting Beckett from Abby’s arms as she catches the last Uber car to the Capitol Hill Hotel. She’s trying, Ashlyn thinks to herself. Ali is really, honestly trying to make sure that nothing goes horribly wrong at Beckett’s first birthday party. It’s sweet, really. At least the thought is. Still, Ashlyn wishes that the party was a “family only” thing. And by “family,” she means her grandparents, Ali’s mom & stepdad, Kyle, Ali’s dad, and maybe Chris if he had been able to make it. (No child remembers their first birthday anyway, but when she pointed that out to Ali she had gotten an hour-long lecture about memories and cherishing the moment and creating a happy childhood that ended with Ali in tears and Ashlyn having to backtrack with some bullshit about how first birthday parties were always a ton of fun.)

“What do you need me to do, Ali? Clean the kitchen? Do the dishes?”

Ashlyn jerks her head up from the floor to stare at Brandon again. Who does he think he is, coming into her home and acting like the perfect gentleman and not the homewrecker he is? “I’ve got it,” she says coolly, not softening her gaze at all as she heads toward the kitchen.

Hope stumbles after her, nearly tripping over her own two feet as she clumsily trots to catch up. There is a familiar silence as Ashlyn furiously scrubs the dishes (she told Kyle they should just use paper plates, but of course he’s a Krieger and Ashlyn has found that they don’t really listen) and hands them to Hope to put in the dishwasher. Kelley has taken this time to grab towels for the guest bedroom upstairs as well as a bundle of fresh white sheets to put on the mattress, and Brandon has put it upon himself to close and lock all the doors in the house. Ashlyn is half-tempted to tell him that they actually don’t lock the doors, but Ali has already thanked him about fifteen times…and Ashlyn hates liars.

“Shelookshappyhuh,” Hope breathes quietly as she puts the last yellow Fiestaware plate into the dishwasher.

“What?” Ashlyn asks confusedly, drying her hands off with the nearest kitchen towel. “Speak up, I can’t understand you when you mumble.”

“I said she looks happy,” Hope hisses, turning away before Ashlyn can see her scarlet cheeks and the tears filling her eyes.

Ashlyn shrugs casually in the apathetic manner that only she can pull off. “Eh. I think she looks like she’s forcing it. And her boy toy looks like he’s straight from Kappa Sigma Chi Alpha Gamma Beta Delta.” She glances over to where Brandon is locking the French doors. “Plus he’s…well, he’s a he.”

Her casual demeanor almost makes Hope laugh, but then it hurts again, and she suddenly remembers that Kelley seemed so miserable with her those last few weeks, and it all crushes her. All Hope had ever wanted was for Kelley to be happy, to be like she was in the beginning—chasing fireflies in Georgia, skinny dipping in Hope’s pool, lazy and slow kissing so soft it drove Hope almost insane, laughing like a little kid at Tom & Jerry in the mornings while Hope made breakfast, easygoing and lighthearted and familiar and uncomplicated. At the end, she was miserable. She didn’t sleep, her face was drawn, she snapped at Hope, she kicked at the cat when he got underfoot, she never wanted to be held, she didn’t giggle or watch cartoons. Hope wonders what happened to make her so miserable and realizes it had to have been her. The ache in her belly grows deeper. What had happened to make Kelley so miserable? Hope had happened. (Old Hope, who was sometimes distant and sometimes too harsh and sometimes too sad and sometimes too far gone.)

It’s a little while later, and Hope and Kelley have successfully avoided each other all night. (Hope ignores the awkward and forced conversation she’d had with Brandon, who had all but thrown himself into introductions and “Kelley has told me so much about you!”) Kelley had managed to fake a headache and go almost straight back to bed after giving Hope the once-over. (She looks tired, Kelley observes, and sad. She looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks. She looks like hell. She looks miserable.) And Hope was pretty quick to turn in for the night as well, saying that her plane ride that morning had really done her in and she was beat.

It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to realize that this all was a very, very bad idea. Ali is silent as she changes into her pajamas (she loves pajamas more than anyone Ashlyn knows, and will never admit it but secretly cheers inwardly when her mom insists on getting the whole family matching Christmas pjs.) She follows her typical bedtime routine—change into pajamas, take out contacts, brush hair, pull hair into bun, wash face, brush teeth, mouthwash, moisturize, floss, take hair down from bun, put on chapstick—with her brow furrowed and mouth drawn into a thin line.

Ashlyn thinks it’s absolutely adorable.

“Mmm…” she hums into Ali’s shoulder as she puts on her chapstick. “My wife is hot when she’s pouting.”

“I am not pouting,” Ali argues in a pouty voice, trying and failing to shake Ashlyn off her shoulder.

“Yeah, you are, and it’s freakin’ adorable.”

Ali relaxes a bit as Ashlyn’s arms reach around her waist. “Tell me I didn’t start World War III by having them here at the same time.”

“You didn’t start World War III by having them here at the same time.”

“Okay, now say it like you mean it.”

Ashlyn grins and pulls Ali in for a kiss. “I’m sorry, baby, but you might have just been the catalyst for the start of World War III. But judging by what I saw tonight, it’s more like a Cold War.” She deepens the kiss as Ali sighs into it and takes the opportunity to thread her fingers through Ali’s dark hair. “Just remember, it’ll all be over in two days. Everyone will go back to their own houses and Kelley will go back to pretending she’s happy with the captain of the lacrosse team and Hope will go back to pretending it’s her fault she’s miserable.”

The room has been quiet for a few minutes before Ali speaks into the silence. Her bare feet are pressed between Ashlyn’s calves for warmth (Ashlyn hates how cold her feet always are, but finds it extremely cute at the same time so she never mentions it) and her face is buried in Ashlyn’s chest.

“I’m sorry.”

Ashlyn crashes her lips into Ali’s forehead. “Sorry? What for?”

“For making you wait for me to be ready so you could be with me. For being an ass about you wanting me to be out. For telling you all those horrible, horrible things. For ever making you doubt my love for you.”

“Alex. That’s been years. It’s all behind us. You don’t have to apologize anymore.”

Ali barely pauses. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. “I know. I just never want you to think that I don’t love you. And I’ll never hurt you like she hurt her.”

Ashlyn pulls her closer and smiles into the dark. God, she loves Ali so much.

"I know. I'll never hurt you either."


	3. ran away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kelley wishes there were another way to break Hope's heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here's some background on why Kelley is the way she is. (Spoiler alert: she still misses Hope.) I have a big final coming up this week, so don't expect a whole lot from me this week, but I tried to leave off in a place that wasn't too angsty or too much of a cliffhanger. I hope to have something else up this week, but if not this week then expect by next Monday for sure! Thank you all for all your sweet comments!

She looks miserable.

Kelley doesn’t need a degree from Stanford to see this.

Hope Solo looks miserable. She looks sad and tired and withdrawn and like she’s given up on the world.

For a moment, Kelley’s heart lurches before she realizes that she doesn’t get to reach out and comfort Hope anymore. She doesn’t get to want to fix her, because she’s the one who broke her. She’s the one who ran away, not Hope; she’s the one who ruined it all, not Hope. And this time, she doesn’t know if it can ever be repaired.

Kelley has always been a “fixer.” It’s just the way she’s always seen the world. (She’s always seen the world differently than everyone else she knew—she never quite fit in growing up; she was smart Kelley in the classroom and soccer Kelley on the pitch, but never both.) Nobody else would quite understand it, because Kelley does not seem like the analytical type. She seems like she’s simple (she does try to keep things as simple as she possibly can) and childlike (she does try to remain optimistic and excited about life) and quick to make decisions (she does try to think on her feet; it’s something she feels she needs to work on.)

But since she was little, Kelley has seen the world as though it needs fixing. So for a long time, she has been that person. She has been the person who brings light to the room, she has been the person who encourages and lifts others up, she has been the person who rights wrongs—all while the wheels in her head turn faster and faster to try to keep up. Nobody would ever guess that Kelley O’Hara was a genius in her own right, Stanford degree or not. The girl was absolutely brilliant, and everyone knew it—she was probably one of the smartest on the team. She had a heart of absolute gold—of course, she was genuinely one of the kindest, most beautiful souls anyone had ever met. Damaged? No one would have ever guessed.

Hope was the first person that Kelley felt she’d been able to fix. She had come back from her thirty-day suspension in January and February of 2015 a new person. Where she had been brash and abrasive, she was softer and vulnerable. Where she had seemed distant and disengaged from the team, she now was painfully close to them, painfully close to breaking. She was more focused, more real, more scared, more fragile. She was not supposed to be—she was their number one, she was their captain, she was their rock, she was their cornerstone. But Kelley saw it, and she was glad that Hope was broken. She was a new person, and the new version of Hope was a lion on the pitch and a lamb off it.

Kelley had wondered how much of it had to do with her.

It’s a cold day at the beginning of March when Hope rejoins the team for the Algarve Cup. She’s sent emails to them explaining what she’s been doing to make sure she is ready to positively contribute to the team. She’s been on the phone with Jill and Christie and Abby and Ashlyn. She’s been in therapy, she’s leaving negativity behind, she wants to forget what happened with her stepsister and nephew, she wants to stop being so angry, she’s divorcing Jerramy. (The last part is carelessly and casually tossed in there like a bomb—I’m better, I’m done being negative, I’m done flying too close to the sun, I’m done feeling sorry for myself, I’m done with my piece of shit husband.)

They’re all overjoyed for Hope. They all hug her and clap her on the back and forgive her and let her know that they are there for her. Kelley hangs back and watches as her team (her family) accept one of their own back into their hearts. She doesn’t rush toward Hope. She doesn’t sweep her into a crushing hug and pretend to not be a little disappointed like Ashlyn, she doesn’t smile broadly and make inappropriate jokes like Pinoe. She stands back and watches as this new, broken Hope cries at the baggage carousel in Portugal. She knows that Hope is like this now, fragile and scared and uncertain. She knows that Hope is going to be different.

Hope had tuned most everyone out during her suspension, ashamed and scared and unsure of what to do. Really, it had been an accident the first time she called Kelley. She had been drunk and terrified and…did she mention she had been drunk? So somehow, as she sat in a dark and dirty motel room in Seattle hiding from Jerramy, she called Kelley O’Hara. Kelley, who was happy all the time; Kelley, who didn’t let little kids win foot races because she was technically still a kid and was disgustingly competitive; Kelley, who had been tossed onto Hope’s backline a few years ago and had needed every single move called out to her so she didn’t mess up; Kelley, who liked to jump out of corners and scare people; Kelley, who still drank chocolate milk at restaurants and couldn’t handle her alcohol.

Kelley had picked up on the third ring, even though that meant that it had been way later (or was it earlier since it was technically morning) in Europe than it was in Seattle. She couldn’t understand Hope at first—it was six in the morning, she hadn’t had her coffee yet, Hope’s words were slurred with alcohol and tears. But eventually she got it all. Hope was in a motel (Hope didn’t “do” motels because she said they were gross and sketchy) drunk on cheap tequila (Hope didn’t even like tequila) and hiding from Jerramy (Hope had never been one to hide from her fears, so Kelley was scared for her. Hope always faced everything with an intimidating glare and a brazen stance that made her look even taller. She did not hide or self-medicate with tequila or run from her problems.)

From then on, Hope calling Kelley became a daily thing. When Kelley didn’t answer because of training or a game or sleep, Hope would leave voicemails that were sometimes silent other than the sound of her crying and sometimes were just minutes of her talking and telling Kelley what she’d done that day and updating her on how she was doing. (“Hey Kell, I’m doing pretty well today. I took Sully and Leo on a walk, then we got coffee and sat on the pier. I didn’t cry when I signed the divorce papers like I thought I would. And I didn’t have a panic attack when I went to bed alone again. Baby steps.”) If Hope didn’t answer, Kelley would spend ten minutes telling stories about the team and how things were going (“Hey Hope, training went okay today. Ashlyn made like seven really good stops. You’d be proud. Jill might start me next game, but I’m just happy to get any time on the pitch. Yesterday was our day off, and we had a movie day in Kling’s room…”)

So now that Hope is back, Kelley wonders if things will change. Will she and Hope still talk like they did? Will Hope go back to being brazen and outspoken and scarily talented? Will she be able to carry on a conversation with Hope in person? Will Hope act like nothing happened, like things can just go back to how they were before? She hangs back and watches everyone else rush to welcome Hope back so she knows they are all happy to have her between the goal posts again. She lets Hope take it all in (Hope is trying her best to not cry, but so far her best efforts are unsuccessful) and pretends to stare at her phone until Hope initiates contact (Kelley’s phone has been dead for hours.)

Hope wraps her up in a hug before Kelley can even pretend to lock her phone screen. It takes the breath right out of Kelley’s chest for a second—Hope has never hugged her, ever, not even after they won an Olympic gold medal—and she has to remind herself to breathe. Her skin is tingling and her neck feels hot from where Hope whispers into her ear, “Thank you, Kell. Thank you for saving me.”

Things only look up from there. Hope and Kelley carry on their odd and unlikely friendship—if you can still call it a friendship when Hope is laughing constantly, Kelley’s hands are always all over Hope in hugs or casually wrapped around her waist for protection (Kelley can’t keep her hands to herself and that’s nothing new, but Hope doesn’t tell her to “keep her fucking hands to herself” with a laugh like she used to), and the pair shares inside jokes and a bed (platonically, Carli assures the rest of the team after she stays awake one night just to scope things out) and even smiles on the pitch (Hope never smiles on the pitch.) They’re best friends, that simple. They make each other feel safe. They pull pranks on each other. They pull pranks together on the rest of the team (Ali and Tobin are particularly easy to prank; Morgan Brian and Lauren Holiday are not.) They love each other, but it’s still unclear to Kelley as to when they fell in love.

Carli tells Hope she knows in July, after they win the World Cup. Everyone is soaked in champagne and giddy from their accomplishment and a little drunk. Ali and Crystal and HAO are dancing around the locker room after the game, singing a drunken remix of “We Are the Champions” by Queen. Ali is so happy and buzzed she can barely stand up straight. Ashlyn doesn’t look at her. (It’s all she can do to keep from tearing off her clothes right then and there and slamming her against a wall.) Kelley is standing on a bench in her sports bra and asking loudly “who dares me to do a front flip off this???” And Hope is sitting back against the locker, her shirt over her head halfway, and thinking about how completely happy she is with her life and where she is. (She’s also staring hungrily at Kelley, but she doesn’t realize it until Carli nudges her hard on the shoulder.)

“Hey buddy.”

Hope looks up at her best friend. “Hey Lloyd. Body shots?”

“You love her.” Carli’s voice is soft and Hope can barely hear her even though they are only inches apart. Her eyes are trained hard on Kelley too.

“What?!” Hope hisses back, slapping Carli’s leg to shut her up.

“Don’t do that, Hope. Don’t lie. You love Kelley. You’re IN love with Kelley.”

All Hope can do is stare at her friend, eyes round as quarters and mouth dropped open.

Carli smiles. Hope Solo has been rendered speechless. “Don’t look so surprised, Hopey. You two aren’t exactly subtle. Kelley’s hands are freakin’ everywhere. You’re happy. You both have that look in your eyes. You’re weird, ya know that? And the walls aren’t as thick as you think.”

The smug little smirk on Carli’s face has Hope feeling like she’s in high school and just got caught making out behind the cafeteria. Then, as quick as the smirk came, it is gone, and Carli has replaced it with a serious look that can only mean business. (Hope has seen it before, when Carli was begging her to not marry Jerramy because she didn’t know him well enough and because he didn’t seem like a good guy and Hope deserved better. So she gulps back her response to Carli and decides to listen.)

“You’re going to hurt her, Hope. End it before you hurt her.”

Hope feels like she’s been punched in the gut. She can’t breathe. She’s going to be sick. “No,” she manages to choke out. “I will not hurt her. I won’t. I swear to God I won’t.”

And for another year and a half, Hope keeps her promise. She and Kelley are happy. The months are filled with soccer, and when it’s not soccer it’s Kelley flying to Seattle (she knows Hope hates flying) just to spend time with Hope. They fill their days with things they both love—Kelley fires ball after ball at Hope so Hope can work on drop-kicking with her left foot and Hope makes Kelley take the shots with her weaker foot; Hope makes salmon with mango salsa; Kelley naps on the couch with Hope’s cat who previously was not allowed on the furniture; Hope teaches Kelley the art of patience and peace & quiet when they go fishing; Kelley brings out Hope’s fun side by starting food fights while they cook supper and ambushes her with a water gun when Hope returns home from the grocery store.

They go to D.C. for Ali and Ashlyn’s wedding together in December 2015. It’s the most beautiful thing Hope has ever seen. Ashlyn looks at Ali like she’s the only person in the whole world; Ali is an absolute vision in her dress. Kelley cries. She acts like she doesn’t because Kelley notoriously does not cry, but it’s ridiculously perfect and there is so much love around her and everyone else cries too. Hope realizes that she is not just happy for Ashlyn, she is proud of her. Ashlyn has never let anything or anyone stand in her way—not a crappy childhood, not crappy parents, not injuries, not her selfish pride, not even Ali herself—and she’s finally getting what she deserves. She gets the girl and the baby. Then Hope realizes that she wants it too. She wants the fairytale wedding, the only person in the world who can make her feel like maybe she does get a happy ending, a few sweet babies.

They win another Olympic gold medal in Rio de Janeiro too. Nobody is quite surprised, but that doesn’t take away the celebration following the gold medal match. There’s champagne and beer and rum and body shots and limes and drunk Spin the Bottle and dancing. The only thing that slows their party is the NBC interview they are required to do the next morning. Hope is glad she stopped drinking when she did—otherwise she’d be as heavy-lidded and unsteady as Kelley, leaning hard into Christie for support. The segment ends and the celebration continues with Mexican food and margaritas and pool tables. Kelley pulls Hope by the wrist to the bedroom.

It’s only a little after they get back from the Olympics that everyone goes to D.C. to help Ali and Ashlyn prepare for their new baby. It’s the happiest Hope can ever remember being—the team is unstoppable, they’re a family, their dynamic is incredible, and everyone is so damn in love with life and each other. (This is what families do, Kelley tells Hope; take care of each other and visit each other and tease each other and spend time together.)

Kelley’s in the front seat of Ashlyn’s car as they go to the grocery store. Ashlyn is driving and Hope and Becky are in the back seat. Hope fought for front seat rights—“I have longer legs, I need more space than you, Squirrel”—but Kelley won an intense battle of Rock-Paper-Scissors and is now not only sitting in the passenger seat, but also in charge of the music. She’s calling herself DJ Kell-Bell and playing really loud, really trashy music. Hope’s heart is in her throat, she loves Kelley so much. Kelley is taking requests for her playlist and starts playing something with a good beat and nauseatingly loud bass when Ashlyn lets out a startled “oh!”

It all happens so fast that Kelley doesn’t remember hearing Becky’s annoyed groan when GDFR started playing or Hope’s happy laugh as she throws her head back. One second they’re cruising along, going the speed limit, and it’s a beautiful day. The next there’s the sickening twist of metal on metal, the crunch of glass shattering, the heart-stopping heavy thud of Ashlyn’s head on the steering wheel. Kelley squeezes her eyes shut and prays that it happens fast. She’s scared of death. She’s scared of losing people. She’s scared of the pain that follows, too. It hits all at once—the pain, the fear, the panic. The car won’t stop moving, rolling, skidding, flying…there’s no stop to the anxiety coursing through Kelley’s veins…and that horrible noise, the sound of metal twisting and bending and breaking.

It seems like forever, but they do finally stop moving. Kelley doesn’t open her eyes to check, but she feels upside down. She feels upside down and she can’t breathe and her arm feels numb—she doesn’t even know if it’s still there, actually, but she doesn’t really want to. If she were braver she would open her eyes, but she can’t bring herself to even stop clenching her fists. She is no longer the one in control of her body. She hopes that if she’s going to die, it happens fast. She hopes that death doesn’t hurt, that she meets her grandparents at the gates, that Heaven is real. She hopes that death will end the ringing in her ears because she would rather die than hear that noise any longer.

Kelley slowly finds the strength to relax her fists and feels that her arm is indeed still attached to her body. As the ringing in her ears slowly subsides, she allows herself to listen to what’s happening around her. The first thing she notices is how loud Becky is breathing behind her. It’s shallow and quick, coming so close together that Kelley is too scared to open her eyes. So instead she just thanks God that at least Becky is alive. (It’s all she can do. She’s never been in a car wreck before. She doesn’t even know what happened. She doesn’t even remember if they were all buckled up.)

The next thing Kelley hears is chaos. It sounds like people are surrounding them, running toward them, yelling for them. The sound of cars braking faster than should be allowed, the sound of footsteps crunching broken glass, the sound of frantic voices, and faint sirens in the distance. She hears a man asking if anyone saw what happened, and another calling out to see if anyone was alive. (She wants to answer, but she’s not sure her voice still works. Also, her throat feels like it has been crushed. It’s getting hard to breathe.) And then she hears a familiar voice. It’s Hope.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” Hope is repeating, sounding stunned and not quite herself.

Oddly enough, Kelley’s first thought is not that Hope should not be outside the vehicle. Her first thought is “thank God. Thank God. Hope is here and she will fix this all and we will all be back at Ashlyn and Ali’s for supper and we will laugh about this story in a few months—hey, remember that time we got in a wreck on our way to the grocery store?! God, what a day.” She wants to turn her head and see if Hope is still in the backseat (she’s definitely not, but Kelley’s thoughts are not clear) but remembers that a neck injury could kill her or paralyze her or make her a vegetable, so she doesn’t move.

“Oh my God. Oh my God.”

The people outside the vehicle are talking to Hope, asking her to sit down, asking her what hurts, telling her to calm down, urging her to take it easy. They are all trying to make her do something she doesn’t want to do. Kelley manages a weak smile. Nobody can make Hope Solo do anything, especially when her family is at risk.

“No. Don’t you dare touch me. Get your hands off me. I’m fine. I said I’m FINE, don’t touch me—KELL. KELLEY.”

There’s a pain and urgency in Hope’s voice, one that convinces Kelley to open her eyes. She almost stops breathing then. They are upside down, without a doubt. There is blood on the windshield, so much blood that Kelley shudders. She prays it’s not hers. She can’t lose that much blood. She will die. She is going to die if that is her blood. She is going to die in the next five minutes if that is her blood on the windshield, and—

“KELLEY. KELL, IF YOU CAN HEAR ME…” Hope’s voice is desperate.

Kelley wants to call out, wants to shout at Hope—yes, I’m alive; yes, I think I’m okay; nothing hurts, is that bad? Before she can answer, she sees Hope’s face above her. At first she thinks she has died. This is an out-of-body experience and she is dead and she is about to watch Hope cry over her dead body. This is not real. But then she blinks hard, gulps, and looks back to the dark figure in the space where the passenger window used to be. It’s really Hope—her face is cut and bruised, her hair has fallen from its ponytail, and her right arm is hanging at an odd angle—but it is really Hope.

“Hey Squirrel,” Hope says, her face instantly relaxing a bit. “How ya doing in there?”

Suddenly Kelley is hyper aware of just how much she hurts. She wants to start crying but she refuses. “I mean, you’ve looked better,” she says in a small voice, offering a sheepish grin.

“Are you hurt?’

“Yes.” It all becomes too much for Kelley. She starts to cry despite her best efforts. “I think I’m gonna die, Hope. I think I’m dying right now. I think I’m trapped.”

Hope’s voice is calming and direct. “Kelley. Kelley, look at me. You are fine. You are scared and shaken up and—oh God. Oh God. Kelley, is Ashlyn alive?”

Guilt creeps into Kelley’s stomach. She hasn’t even thought of Ashlyn. “I don’t know,” she admits, “but Becky is alive.”

Hope squints into the wreckage for a beat before climbing further atop the car and lowering herself into the frame of the car. She frees Becky first, demanding that she take a deep breath and stop hyperventilating before she passes out, and then Kelley, who is a bit banged up but otherwise has realized that she is probably okay. The sirens are closer now, but Hope is not sure how much time they have. Ashlyn has not moved or made a sound since the startled “oh” before the initial crash, and the panic in Hope’s chest is starting to settle in. If Ashlyn is dead, they will never be a team again.

Becky and Kelley are crowding Hope too much. She almost wishes they were both unconscious as she puts her trembling hand to Ashlyn’s neck to feel for a pulse. They all jump when Ashlyn speaks.

“I think I’m bleeding out, Hope.”

Ashlyn has called Hope by her first name maybe a total of ten times in the years they’ve been friends. The sound of it from her lips almost makes Hope pass out herself. She feels her heart sink to her stomach.

“Hey Harris, no crapping out on me, okay? You know Ali will kill us all.” She makes sure Ashlyn can see her smile before she turns to Becky and Kelley. Still trying to keep an eye on Ashlyn, she directs her attention to the other two women. “If you can stall the first responders…even just a little bit…”

Kelley’s jaw drops. Stall the first responders?! The people who are going to get her out of this hell and save Ashlyn’s life?! No. No way in hell. Hope must have a brain injury. She must have something wrong with her to think that is IN ANY WAY a good idea. But before Kelley can say “hell no I’m not going to delay rescue” Becky is nodding. And before Kelley can ask Becky what the hell is wrong with her, Hope explains.

“If they move her now…if they move the car right now…” Hope pauses, staring back at Ashlyn, who is sickeningly pale and glassy-eyed. “I’m not sure where she’s bleeding from,” Hope admits, restarting her explanation. “I mean, I know that she’s bleeding pretty much everywhere, but I think that the car is putting pressure on some of it right now. If they try to move her now I’m afraid she’ll die. I’m afraid she will bleed out. I just need a few minutes to figure out where all that blood is coming from. Please, Kelley. Please.”

The next few minutes are a blur as Kelley’s instincts kick in. She and Becky fend off the EMTs and firefighters (rescue squad) for a few minutes before Hope confidently says, “It’s her femoral. It’s her femoral and I have pressure on it but we need to move. NOW.”

Everyone is evaluated in the emergency room. Hope’s shoulder is dislocated and she’s going to be sore; Kelley’s humerus is broken and she has a concussion; Becky has a few broken ribs. They’re all going to be okay in time. Ashlyn is wheeled past them straight to emergency surgery. It’s a few minutes before they realize that nobody has called Ali. Kelley starts to drift off on Hope’s chest; she doesn’t quite remember what else happens that afternoon, but the details are slowly filled in. Ashlyn almost died on the table; the baby is a healthy little boy; they were hit by a drunk driver; Hope cries. It’s going to be a road back to normalcy for everyone.

Another few months pass and Kelley has found herself completely miserable. She’s unhappy and she can’t quite figure out why. Hope still loves her—nothing has changed there. Hope loves her and protects her and helps her and fights for her and needs her. She lets her sleep in and buys her ice cream and makes dumb jokes. (No, Hope is still wonderful. Why does Hope still have to be so good to her?) She misses soccer. She is still playing the beautiful game. She is sliding into tackles cleanly and streaking up and down the field flawlessly, doing everything right—Hope assures her, and Hope is not her girlfriend on the pitch, Hope is her goalkeeper; Hope would never lie to Kelley about her performance or give her special treatment because that is just not Hope—but she still is not starting or playing long or even making a big impact on the field. Ali and Kling and Julie and Becky are all playing and scoring and doing well. Jill reminds them almost every day that they are doing great. To Kelley, she gives lists of things to work on, and with every completed list there is another to follow. (Jill doesn’t like Kelley. Nobody understands it.)

Kelley is miserable and she still has Hope and she still has soccer. She should be happy. She knows she should be happy. But she is instead angry. She’s short with Hope, fierce and aggressive on the field, quiet and not complaining at home. It’s a series of things that are making Kelley unhappy, she finally decides while she’s in bed with Hope one night. It’s Hope. It’s soccer. It’s her team. It’s herself.

In the beginning Hope was broken. She needed to be saved, and Kelley had been more than glad to do so. She took it as a challenge—put back together what has never been whole to begin with; fix what has been broken for years and years now. And now Hope is fixed. She is whole again—whole for maybe the first time ever—and she is in a good place. She is healthy, playing the best soccer Kelley has maybe seen anyone play—shutout after shutout—and she’s giving Kelley all the credit. She hugs Kelley from behind in the kitchen and kisses her in the spot behind her ear that she knows drives Kelley crazy, and she whispers in her ear that she loves her and is proud of her and that she wants to be with her forever.

And Kelley doesn’t know what to do.

Hope is fixed. Kelley put her back together. And now that Hope is okay, Kelley is not. She put too much of herself into making sure that everyone else was okay. (Tobin had reminded her that she was going to do this one day; she was going to realize that she had given too much and asked for nothing in return and it was going to kill her.) She had nothing left to give. It was all gone. Even if she had looked deeper, it was gone. She was exhausted and she wanted her kindness and optimism and happiness and her own damn mind back. Yet she knows she can’t tell Hope that she loves her but she needs space, needs to figure out how to balance giving to others and giving to herself. She knows that she can’t break Hope directly, so she breaks herself too.

She meets Brandon at a bar in Georgia one night when she and Hope are visiting in December of 2017. He’s not her type—she knows that immediately. Kelley has always gone for the tall, dark ones who are a bit broken and a bit bad and need saving. Alex and Tobin called her a “missionary dater.” She dated with the intention of helping and changing people. And Brandon is not broken. He’s a trust fund baby, a Georgia peach with an affinity for pastel polo shirts and Arnold Palmers. He’s not tall and he’s not dark-haired. He’s a fraternity boy for sure, and Kelley despises frat boys. But he’s also kind and charming and his smile is heart-stopping. His smile spells trouble for Kelley. So she drinks a few too many Shiner beers, drags her hand across her mouth, and saunters up to him with the Kelley-flirting-factor at an all time high.

It’s February before Kelley musters up the courage to break Hope’s heart. She wishes there were another way to do this. They’re in France for a friendly and Kelley lets Hope overhear a conversation on the phone with Brandon. She’s talking too loud, saying things she would never say in person, telling him she loves him, talking about next time she gets to see him, asking him to keep them a secret a little longer. She knows Hope hears it all by the look on her face when Hope loudly slams the hotel room door and leans heavily against the wall. Kelley hangs up slowly, her eyes not leaving Hope’s.

“So that’s it then,” Hope says, her voice husky with the emotion she refuses to let out in front of Kelley. She won’t let Kelley see how much it really hurts. She won’t let Kelley win here. “How long have you been cheating on me?”

The guilt in Kelley’s eyes says it all. “Hope…can we talk?”

They both decide that nobody has to know it was Kelley who hurt Hope. It’s just easier if they think it was Hope—that’s what they will all assume anyway. Kelley can live on happily with Brandon, and Hope will let her. Hope will go back to an empty house in Seattle and try to be okay, try to pretend that everything there doesn’t remind her of kissing Kelley or sleeping with Kelley or cooking with Kelley or swimming with Kelley or playing soccer with Kelley. She’ll go back to Seattle and try to pretend that her heart isn’t in a thousand pieces that Kelley has so willingly stomped on.

It’s six months before Hope sees Kelley again. There have been no texts, no calls, no tweets, no questions sent by word of a teammate. Hope only knows that Kelley is pregnant because Ashlyn tried to be very discreet and subtle in telling her over coffee one morning in a Kansas City camp and ended up blurting out clumsily, “So you know Kell is knocked up, don’t you?”

Kelley had assumed Hope would be at Beckett’s party, but she had not counted on Ashlyn and Ali being terrible communicators (because who in their right mind would have Hope AND Kelley AND Brandon stay at their house?) She also did not count on the way her breath would catch in her throat when she sees Hope again for the first time since she broke her heart. There have been so many times that Kelley has come within seconds of asking Tobin or Julie or Ali or Christie or Abby or even Morgan how Hope was doing, but she could never quite do it—it was her fault, and she didn’t get to worry about Hope anymore. She gave up that right when she broke her again.

But there Hope is, lazily sipping wine as she stretches across Ali and Ashlyn’s living room floor with her head in Carli’s lap. She’s laughing, and Kelley realizes with a sick feeling in her belly that Hope might actually be okay without her. (Kelley is not okay without Hope. She needs her. She wants her. She aches for her. She misses her.) Slowly, everyone starts to notice her, and that includes Hope. It’s clear then, the second that Kelley meets Hope’s eyes and sees nothing but pain.

She looks miserable, and Kelley knows why. She spends the rest of her night avoiding Hope (she’s surprised it went so well, considering how insistent Ali can be on the team spending time together.) 

It’s only about 9 when Kelley decides to fake a headache and goes back to bed. Brandon joins her not long after. He holds her and she tries to convince herself that it feels right. The kisses he presses to her belly and lips feel cold and emotionless. His chest is not as warm and comforting as Hope’s. His arms are scrawny and too soft—Kelley won’t ever mention to her friends that he gets manicures—and he smells too much like Zest soap and cologne that costs more than a decent pair of shoes. Kelley tries not to, but she’s suddenly comparing everything he does to Hope.

She can’t fall asleep.

She misses Hope. It’s been six months and she still misses Hope every second of every day.


	4. fix you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Ashlyn and Ali fluff; a little bit of Hope and Kelley angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys know I can't stay away for too long :) Every time I tried to study I came to this instead. My bad. (Things might get worse before they get better, just a heads up for the upcoming chapters.)

Someone once told Ali that everything happens for a reason.

Since that day, she has been searching for the hidden meaning in everything she does. It seems to work out most of the time—the flight she missed to college because of traffic crashed fifteen minutes after takeoff due to mechanical failure; she broke her leg and missed her last College Cup and also the nasty bout of food poisoning that her teammates all contracted; she failed a test in college and learned the value of studying; her car died in the rain, but had she continued on she would have been swept away by a strong current only a block from her house; her parents got divorced and she found that they were all much happier; she stopped talking to her brother for a little while and he got sober; she tore her ACL right before the Olympics and learned that she couldn’t rely on things that could be taken away from her for her happiness. Really, it has become a subconscious thing for Ali that has helped her overcome a lot of the negativity in her life. Something bad that happens is a protection from something worse.

She absolutely cannot find a reason why Kelley would hurt Hope.

Ali has always been hesitant to jump to conclusions about people. She has been forgiven of so much in her own life that she knows that people deserve a second chance when they mess up, and a second, third, fourth, fortieth, four hundredth. She wants to believe that there is good in every person, that it’s a choice, the light and the dark. She most of all wants other people to know that she supports them and wants the best for them because there is hope for everyone. It’s never too late to start over and become who you always wanted to be. God knows that she has been given that chance by so many, and it would be a crime to not give the same to others.  
\- - - - - - - - - - - - -   
Hope tells her the truth the day after Kelley breaks her heart. She doesn’t have much of a choice—Ali is good at reading people, God love her—and there is “DISTRESS” written all over Hope’s face. Her eyes are red and swollen like she’s hungover, but they were under strict orders to not drink or even leave the hotel. It’s either confess to Ali or let her think that she is not actually New Hope and deliberately broke the rule Jill laid out only a few days ago. (Ali knew all along that Hope would not be stupid enough to fly that close to the sun when she was already on Jill’s radar.)

There’s something weirdly intimate about Hope’s confession. Ali stops seeing her as just Hope, as Ashlyn’s competition, as her boss. She can see something else now, something more vulnerable and human and weak. She feels honored that Hope trusts her with her secret. For a little while, she wears it around like a badge of pride. It’s hers and Hope’s secret, theirs to share and no one else’s.

Only a week passes before the secret is too heavy. Ali is exhausted. She’s tired of keeping the truth from Ashlyn. She’s tired of the phone calls at 2 in the morning because Hope can’t sleep and she can’t talk to anyone but Ali. She’s tired of feeling like Hope’s life is riding on her shoulders. It’s only been seven days and her head is spinning. She feels guilty for even kissing Ashlyn when she asks what’s bothering her. They don’t really talk anymore. It’s always quiet, giving Ali too much time to think. Sometimes, when she thinks Ashlyn is sound asleep, she cries.

Ashlyn notices.

She pretends not to at first. She doesn’t want to push Ali to talk. The last time she pushed Ali to do something she didn’t want, she almost lost her. Ashlyn has known Ali long enough to know that the girl does what she wants, when she wants. It has been both infuriating and incredible. Even after years of loving her, it still takes Ashlyn’s breath away, how her wife can be so frustrating and so amazing at the same time. She still can’t make Ali do anything she doesn’t want to do—not the laundry, not the dishes, not landscaping the yard, not cooking dinner—but when Ali wants something, she wants it then. There are dozens of memories in Ashlyn’s mind of Ali demandingly shoving her to the bed and straddling her and kissing her until she could do nothing but give in to her. When Ali is ready, she’ll let Ashlyn know. Until then, it’s best to just leave it be.  
\- - - - - - - - - - - - -   
Ali is awake at two in the morning, a now-sleeping Beckett in her arms as she sways back and forth with him. Her shoulders are sagging and her eyes are closed, her face pressed to the top of his soft blonde head. Ashlyn rolls over in bed and reaches out for her, only to brush her fingers over cold sheets. She squints and blinks until her eyes adjust to the dark, and then she is able to make out the silhouette of her wife and son near the window. Her heart aches. She loves them both with all of her being.

“Alex. Baby, come back to bed,” she mumbles, already on the verge of falling back asleep.

There is no response from across the room, so Ashlyn forces herself to get out of bed.

“Princess, it is too early or too late or too middle-of-the-night to be awake,” she mutters as she clumsily stumbles over the pillows and clothes that were tossed from the bed in the heat of the moment. It only takes her putting her arm around Ali’s waist for Ali to completely lose it.

Ali cries for another ten minutes, which certainly is not setting any records. Sometimes Ali just cries, mad or sad or happy or angry or inspired or in love or worried. Ashlyn puts Beckett back to bed, makes Ali some chamomile tea, and draped the blue button-down she’d worn to dinner that night around her shoulders—wearing Ash’s clothes always makes Ali feel better. Then she holds her close and lets her cry into her chest. When Ali gets like this, it’s because she’s kept it all inside for too long.

One person cannot hold the world.

It takes a few minutes, but Ali finally manages to tell Ashlyn the story. She shakes the whole way through it, and a few times has to wait for Ashlyn to give her a reassuring kiss on the forehead. Then there is silence, and Ali starts to wonder why she doesn’t feel any better. She thought sharing the burden would make it less heavy, less of a hurt in her heart. The story is not hers to tell; the secret is not hers to lug around; the pain is not hers.  
\- - - - - - - - - - - - -   
When she was younger, Ali thought it to be a curse that she felt everything so much. She didn’t want to hurt so deeply for other people, to love so passionately, to want so fiercely, to fight so hard. It wasn’t until she was older, when she learned to love herself, that she realized how much of a gift it was that she was able to experience life so fully. The first time she had woken up in Ashlyn’s arms to Ashlyn lazily drawing circles on her back, she had felt so overwhelmed she could only cry. She had truly given herself to someone for the first time. She had put every piece of her heart on the table—all the pieces that she thought were too broken and ugly and awful to ever be loved, the piece she was ashamed of, the pieces that were selfish and talked too much and didn’t listen. She had let Ashlyn see it all, and Ashlyn was not running. Ashlyn was still with her, holding her and tracing her spine.

“You know it’s okay, right?” Ashlyn had whispered into her ear, her lips barely brushing Ali’s neck.

Ali had shivered at the touch. It made the hair on her arms stand up and her core throb. “What’s okay?” she had responded hoarsely, having to swallow the want in her throat.

“It’s not just okay, Alex.” (That was the first time anyone outside of her family had called her Alex. She decided then and there that she liked it.) “It’s a gift that you feel everything the way you do. It’s incredible, really, that you are able to experience life this way. Never think it a curse that you sometimes cry more than you think you should or that your heart aches with love and emotion or that you fight so hard for what’s right and what you believe in. The world has way too many people who are apathetic. You’re on fire.”

Since then, Ali has been trying to embrace every part of her soul, even if it means she cries during Aladdin and feels her heart rate pick up when she’s angry and tears stream down her face when she’s happy and she bounces up and down when she’s excited. Even if it means that she feels sad for no particular reason some days. Even if it means she can’t back down from what she knows will turn into a fight.

She cannot embrace the anger she feels toward Kelley and the sadness in her chest for Hope.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -   
It’s the day of Beckett’s birthday party, and Ali is cursing her good heart. So far they have all managed to avoid any excessive drama, but it’s been too close for comfort for Ali’s liking. There have been no big blowups, no huge fights (Carli had gotten up in Hope’s face and told her that she had warned her that she would hurt Kelley; Hope had narrowed her gaze and walked away from the fight before it could start. Ali was proud.) Otherwise, the worst thing that had happened had been Kelley trying to miss every single activity so she didn’t have to sit at the same table as Hope or laugh at the same joke as Hope or be in the same car as Hope.

The exhaustion is starting to get the best of her. Ali can admit this to herself. She knows how much she can take, when she’s had enough, when she’s going to finally lose it on someone. (These days, “someone” usually means Ashlyn, which is unfortunate but only fitting.) There is always an overwhelming beat of anger in her chest right before she reaches her breaking point, and then there’s no turning back. Sometimes she cries, sometimes she yells, sometimes she absolutely explodes with anger and frustration and emotion. She knows she can only take so much going, going, going until she’s going to have finally had too much and not be able to take it any longer. Usually it takes her longer to reach this level of exhaustion, though—normally a whole camp, which is two to three weeks, or a few too many nights of not enough sleep. She doesn’t know what’s different this time.

Whatever it is, it has her up before the sun on August 5th. She has never been an early riser. Given the opportunity, she could probably sleep from 10 at night to 10 in the morning. (Any later than that and she feels like she’s wasted a whole day.) Something has been off the past few weeks. She can’t fall asleep before midnight, can’t stay asleep, can’t go back to sleep after she wakes up at 5. If Ashlyn knew, she would only worry. So Ali has been making the best of these early mornings. She’ll sit on the balcony, sip some coffee, eat a bowl of Cheerios, journal, shower, fold laundry, meditate, do some yoga. A few times she has gone on a run to the Washington Monument or the Mall. Sometimes Beckett will be awake too, and she will whisper stories to him about her childhood, about Kyle, about Ashlyn, about the team, about anything she can think of. It’s made her more productive, but she can feel the exhaustion taking its toll.

The alarm clock reads 4:48 when she climbs out of bed. Ashlyn is sound asleep beside her, breathing softly and quietly. Occasionally her eyelids flicker and her lips smack drily in her sleep. Dreaming, Ali thinks to herself as she presses a gentle kiss to the top of her wife’s head. She hits every single creaky floorboard in the room as she makes her way to the bathroom, still not completely steady on her feet. The light in the bathroom is almost too bright. She has to sit on the toilet fully clothed and squinting angrily while the water heats up. It’s always like this. Ali’s not good at rising early, even if it is on her own accord, and she need a minimum of ten minutes to fully wake up.

She is finally coherent enough to step inside the shower and lets out an involuntary moan the minute the water hits her. As usual, it’s hot enough to leave red marks on her back and arms and legs, just the way she likes it. The steam wakes her up fully, and she can feel her tense muscles begin to relax. As tilts her head back to rinse her shampoo, she groans again, this time from the unpleasant brightness of the overhead light. The greasy pizza they all shared the night before is rearing its ugly head. Her stomach churns unsettlingly, and she almost loses the contents of her belly in the shower. Instead, she closes her eyes for a few minutes and sinks back against the shower wall until she’s sitting down. Man, she really needs to do something about this whole “not sleeping” thing. Maybe melatonin or Lunesta or something stronger.

With her ear pressed against the cool tile of the shower, she can hear what’s happening one room over. It’s Kelley’s room, and it sounds like fighting—but fighting in a whisper. With a start, Ali realizes it’s Hope, not Brandon, who is arguing with her. She can’t understand much, but it sounds like the fight is over the truth.

“No.”

That is Hope, her whisper soft but firm. Ali can tell that it’s Hope because Kelley doesn’t even sound like she’s attempting to keep quiet.

“Why not, Hope? Why is that such a problem for you?!”

And that’s Kelley, whose whisper is not at all a whisper but an urgent plea.

“You gave up that right, Kelley. You gave it up when you decided to cheat on me and break me all over again.”

“Hope, please, I don’t want to do this any more. I can’t do this anymore. It’s too hard, and—“

Ali stops breathing for a moment so she can strain to hear what comes next. Hope’s voice has dropped to an angry hiss. “Stop, Kelley, just STOP. You don’t get to say this is hard. You are the reason this is ‘hard.’ I didn’t make this hard. You can’t pretend that this is my fault. It’s YOU, Kelley. YOU. YOU made this hard. And don’t tell me this is ‘hard’ until you have spent every minute of every day for the past six months trying to figure out what you did to make someone hate you so damn much. You know what’s fucking hard? Seeing you with him. Seeing you pregnant. Seeing you in general, Kelley. It took a fucking miracle to get me here. I live with what you did every single day. What about you, Kelley?! What is so hard about your life?!”

There is a small whimper from Kelley, the little one she lets out only when she’s hurt. Ali has heard it exactly three times in her life—once when she was hurt on the pitch, once when she took a hard elbow to the eye from Carli on the field (her eye socket ended up being broken), and once when a man at a restaurant accused Abby of being a “dyke.” For a moment, Ali’s chest wells up with anger. Kelley being so kind and bubbly and naive makes it hard to hear that little squeak of pain,

“I have to live without you, Hope,” Kelley mutters, her voice high enough that Ali can hear her loud and clear. “I have to live every day knowing that I put you back together and I fixed you and then I broke you again. I broke what I had fixed and I knew what I was doing when I did it. I have to live every day knowing that I don’t deserve you, Hope. And that’s hard.”

Only silence follows, and then a slamming door—most likely Hope leaving. Kelley doesn’t slam doors. Kelley is not a fighter, she is a peacemaker.

“Alex?”

That’s Ashlyn’s sweet, groggy voice from the doorway, where she is blinking against the harsh light. Her curly hair is matted on one side and tangled on the other. Her arms are crossed across her chest, and she’s still only wearing her sports bra and Nike sweatpants that are slung low on her hips.

“Alex, it’s so early. Why are you up?”

Ali sticks her head out the glass door of the shower and smiles sweetly at her wife. “I’m showering before everyone else wakes up. Wanna join?”

Ashlyn furrows her brow. She’s confused. Ali doesn’t wake up early. Ali doesn’t smile in the mornings. Ali needs at least one cup of coffee before she can be nice. Ali definitely does not proposition her for shower sex at 5 in the morning. “I’m a little apprehensive about that, Alexandra.”

“Why?” Ali is pouting now, standing where Ashlyn can see her.

A sneaky grin fills Ashlyn’s face. “You just haven’t had your coffee yet. I’m a little scared of what you might do to me.”

“Oh really.”

She can tell Ali is taking this as a challenge, so she backs up and holds her hands up in defense. This is exactly where she wants her. “Yes, really. You can be a real monster without your beauty sleep and caffeine. I’m a teensy bit afraid.” She pauses. “Besides, my Ali is not good with coordination in the morning. Her hand-eye is always off first thing.”

Ali’s eyes go from playful to competitive. Ashlyn inwardly pats herself on the back and leans against the doorway cockily, proud of herself for bringing out such a wild side of Ali so early. It’s only a matter of seconds before she’s caught off guard and slammed against the shower wall, her wrists pinned above her head. She’s so surprised that her eyes flicker open as Ali fiercely kisses her and dominates her easily, not relaxing her grip on Ashlyn’s wrists as she uses her free hand to pull down her wife’s sweatpants. Ali is bossily and hungrily pushing her tongue into Ashlyn’s mouth, fighting for control.

Thankfully, Ashlyn is able to regain her composure rather quickly and pulls away. “Forgetting something, Alex?”

“No,” Ali replies, her eyes dark as she licks her lips.

“Yes you are.”

Now she looks confused and a bit put off that Ashlyn has pulled away. “What the hell, Ashlyn?”

Ashlyn pulls her sports bra over her head. “This, for starters. And the fact that you always go first.”


	5. a good man is hard to find.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why don't things ever just go the way they should?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Ali-Ashlyn flashback; a little bit of Kelley-Brandon drama; a little bit of hope (or Hope.) 
> 
> Language and sexual references included...just a heads up.
> 
> (By the way, you guys are the nicest ever.)

_Ali is in the kitchen when Ashlyn wakes up._

_Normally it’s Ashlyn up at this hour, making coffee and sitting with a sketchpad at the window, overlooking the early morning bustle outside Ali’s flat in Germany. There’s normally a window of about two hours between Ashlyn rising and Ali stumbling out of bed still half-asleep, but today is different. Ali is already up, and—though neither are particularly early risers or “morning people” to speak of—Ashlyn is taken by surprise. Eight o’clock is a usual wake-up time for her; Ali is typically out until 9:30 or later._

_Yet there she sits, her hands wrapped around a mug of steaming coffee, her hair messily thrown over one shoulder, her feet in warm fuzzy socks, and her legs bare. Ashlyn blinks and rubs the sleep from her eyes. The clock reads 7:23. Early for both of them._

_“Alex?” she asks slowly, still trying to make sense of it all._

_Ali turns around to face her, and it’s clear she’s been crying. Something drops in Ashlyn’s stomach. Not a word has been said, but everything between them has been said already, without words, without touch, with nothing but their eyes. Ashlyn sits down and begins to cry._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ali is taking her sweet time, Ashlyn can tell. Not that Ali doesn’t always take her sweet time. Come to think of it, Ashlyn can’t remember the last time they weren’t late to something because her wife had to repaint her nails or couldn’t find her shoes or didn’t like the way her dress looked or laid in bed too long instead of fixing her hair. This is different. Things are normally done the way Ali likes them—teasing and fun and fast. But Ali is taking her time today. She is slow. She is deliberate. She is serious and won’t let Ashlyn speak. Her tongue traces little figure-eights on Ashlyn’s ear and her fingers are not teasing at all.

“Alex.” Ashlyn squirms free from her grip and pushes her back gently by the shoulders. “Alex, what are you doing?”

Ali’s eyes are entirely innocent and slightly annoyed as she tries to force her way back to where she was. “I’m kissing you. Now stop interrupting and let me do my thing.”

It’s all Ashlyn can do to keep from laughing. For as serious as Ali is right now, she probably wouldn’t take it well if her wife burst out in a giggle fit while they showered together. “Your thing?”

Now it’s Ali’s turn to push away. She stares at Ashlyn with a look in her eyes that suggests she is not amused at all and does not find any humor in this situation. “What, is that funny to you?”

Ashlyn forces herself to hold in the laugh bubbling in her throat. No, she does not find this funny. (She finds it hysterical.) The look on Ali’s face is almost comical. The passion and darkness of her eyes does not match up with the look of sincerity on her face.

“Because it’s not. It’s not funny.” Before Ashlyn can protest that she doesn’t actually think it’s funny (she hates liars, but if the truth means Ali is going to stop whatever she is doing right now—which is doing wonders for Ashlyn’s mood—she figures a lie is okay) Ali has dropped to her knees in front of her. “Now shut up.”

As good as this feels, the ache between her legs building, Ashlyn makes herself knock her knee into Ali, throwing her balance off. Fuck. Why does the right thing have to feel so horrible?

“What the hell, Ashlyn?!” Ali is on her butt in the shower, glaring up at her.

“Alex.”

“What.”

“I don’t know what you’re doing.”

She helps Ali to her feet, and in the process Ali has skimmed her fingertips from Ashlyn’s thigh up to her chin. Ashlyn shivers.

“And now you won’t know what I’m doing,” she says simply, knowing full well that she’s being a tease and a flirt and a bit of a bitch.

“No, Allleeeexxxx, please,” Ashlyn begs, grabbing her hands and pulling her close. “Please don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” Ali asks innocently, her fingers sliding lower and lower on Ashlyn’s torso and ghosting across her hip bones.

Ashlyn groans. “That. Don’t tease me and act like you aren’t going to finish what you started.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_The swollen red of Ali’s eyes say more than her lips ever could. Suddenly the whole place feels cold. Ashlyn has that dizzying feeling again, where her head feels like it’s spinning and her chest is too small. It makes her feel trapped in her own body. She tries to think of what could have possibly changed in such little time. They had shared Chinese takeout the night before, sipped from a bottle of whiskey that Ali had found in her cabinets, laughed until after midnight at bad sitcoms, and had sex on the couch—a perfectly normal night for them when Ashlyn is visiting Germany and Ali._

_She scrunches her face in concentration, trying to remember if anything out of the ordinary had happened. The alcohol’s making everything blurry in her memory; she can’t seem to remember if she initiated the first move or if it was Ali, like it normally is. The harder she thinks, the more difficult it becomes to breathe. Her chest feels like it’s caving in. The more she remembers, the more suffocated she feels. Ali had seemed desperate and urgent the night before. Every move had been calculated and hungry and full of emotion. (Ashlyn had assumed that was love.) There had been no bringing her to the edge and backing down. It had all happened so quickly that she was disoriented and unable to form full sentences when Ali was done._

_(She had told herself it was the alcohol, it was the plane ride in two days, it was the surprise of the visit.)_

_Now she can see that it wasn’t love. It wasn’t the alcohol or that Ashlyn had surprised her or that she was flying back to the States in two days. It wasn’t anything. It was trying to make herself feel what Ashlyn felt._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“I’m sorry,” Ali apologizes again, twisting her hair into a towel atop her head.

Ashlyn can’t help but smirk. “For waking me up so early or for thinking you could get away with teasing me like that? Because I think if that’s the case, I should be apologizing to you. Might have worn you out before the day even began.”

“Easy there, stud,” Ali replies, snapping her with the end of her towel. “I’m sorry for acting weird the past few weeks. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” She pauses as she rubs lotion on her legs. “And you didn’t wear me out. Better sleep with one eye open, Harris. Revenge will come when you least expect it.”

Slipping her black v-neck over her head, Ashlyn teasingly holds up her hands in surrender. “Damn, remind me not to fall asleep any time soon. You can get pretty into it when you think you have something to prove.”

“I do not have anything to prove,” Ali argues, pulling her blush-colored skinny jeans forcefully over her muscular legs. “If I remember correctly, you’re the one who begged me to finish what I started.”

“And you’re the one who is just now able to form sentences of more than two words,” Ashlyn cracks up.

Ali’s face blushes scarlet and she looks down shyly. Ashlyn hasn’t seen her look so bashful in years. “My sentences have been fully coherent this whole time, thank you very much. See if I ever invite you into my shower again.”

There’s a casual, playful shrug from Ashlyn as she slips on her jeans. “I’m just saying, you weren’t complaining about me joining you when you were yelling my name ten minutes ago.”

“ASHLYN MICHELLE HARRIS.” Ali is indignant. “I was NOT yelling your name.”

“You’re right.” Now Ashlyn is doubled over laughing at herself. “Maybe it wasn’t ‘Ash.’ Maybe it was ‘oh God.’ “

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_“Why the hell am I even here?!” Ashlyn yells, tears streaming down her face. “Why the hell did you call me?!” Her voice goes high as she mimics Ali. “YOU called me! ‘Come on, Ash! Come see me in Germany! Buy a plane ticket so I can fuck you and then dump you!’ “_

_Ali’s fists are clenched. “Shut the hell up, Ashlyn. You know that’s not how it happened.”_

_Ali is too level-headed. It’s only firing Ashlyn up even more. She ignores the deep hurt in her chest and the voice in her head telling her to quit while she can, to not start a fight. She could still quit right now—they were not past the point of no return yet._

_“You asked if you could come, Ashlyn.” And Ali’s voice is too quiet, too calm, too honest. “You asked if I wanted you to come visit. I didn’t plan any of this.”_

_“YOU LET ME THINK YOU LOVED ME, ALI! You let me think that we actually had something. You let me think that you were going to stay with me. You let me think that distance meant nothing.” The point of no return is approaching. Ashlyn can’t stop the tears spilling over. She’s yelling now. “YOU did this, Ali, not me.”_

_“Ashlyn, it’s not fair to you. You deserve someone who can be with you. I live on another fucking continent. We’re oceans apart, Ash, physically and—“_

_“And what, Ali? And WHAT.” Ashlyn knows that she’s daring Ali to say it, but she doesn’t care now. There’s no turning back now. She’s crossed the line._

_Ali gives in to the anger that’s coursing through her blood. “We live in different worlds, Ashlyn, and yours is so different from mine! You know who you are. You know what you want. Your world is entirely figured out. Mine is chaotic and messy and you’ll only get hurt here!”_

_“That’s not up to you to decide, Alex! It’s not your place to decide if I get hurt or not!”_

_The frustration Ali is feeling boils over. “Ashlyn, I’m trying to protect you here. You deserve someone who can give you what you want physically and emotionally. You deserve someone who can kiss you every night and shower with you every morning and make you coffee. You deserve someone who is not ashamed to be with you!”_

_She regrets the words before they even leave her mouth. Self-loathing and shame fill her entire being. She hangs her head as the white-hot embarrassment creeps up her neck._

_Ashlyn’s voice is quiet again. “You’re ashamed of me?”_

_“No, Ashlyn, that’s not it.” Ali is quiet now too. “I’m not ashamed of you, I—“_

_“You what?” Ashlyn spits. She quiets the voice in her head urging her to stop, to not explode on Ali, to not use her powerful body to express her anger. She’s afraid she might actually, physically hurt Ali if she gives in to it all. “You’re ashamed. Of me, of us.”_

_Ali’s head is still down, tears now falling to the floor. “I’m ashamed of me. I can’t be doing this. I can’t do this to my family. I’m not gay. I’ve never been with a girl before. It’s not you I’m ashamed of, Ashlyn. Please don’t think that. You’ve been nothing but wonderful. You deserve someone who’s going to be able to hold your hand in public and kiss you on dates and post pictures of you and marry you and have babies with you. It’s me. I’m the problem.”_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Hope watches a very smiley Ali walk into the kitchen, her eyes bright and her hair still wet from her shower. It takes her a moment to notice Hope, who is sitting at the island on a bar stool with an unpeeled banana in front of her.

“Good morning!” she says brightly, going to start the coffee drip. “How’d you sleep?”

The grin on Hope’s face only spreads. Ali is never this cheerful at 7 in the morning. Judging by this, in addition to the fact that she is completely dressed and Hope heard quite a raucous upstairs, Ali has been up for a few hours—and has already gotten her fix for the day. “Hey yourself, Ali Krieger-Harris. I slept pretty well.” Hope only pauses for a beat before she adds with a grin, “And you? Sounds like you didn’t do much sleeping.”

Ali blushes bright pink. “That loud, huh?”

“Let’s just say that you two aren’t used to having house guests.”

“You and Kelley haven’t killed each other yet. You were up pretty early too.” Ali is quick to switch the conversation from herself to Hope. “I heard you two arguing.”

Hope shrugs, peeling her banana. “She thinks she’s allowed to get a do-over. When you hurt someone like that, you don’t get to take it back.”

That stops Ali in her tracks. “Hope…” She takes a deep breath. “Everyone deserves a second chance. And a third and fourth and four thousandth. I’m not telling you that you have to take her back and wait for her to hurt you again, but I am saying that she should have your forgiveness at the very least. You don’t have to forget that she hurt you, but you’ll feel better when you forgive her. It won’t feel as heavy for you. You may not ever be ready to let her back in. You may not want to. But it will be easier for her to come back onto your backline and know that you both are moving on. It’ll be better for everyone if you forgive her. Just give it a try, okay? Because people really do change, and when they do, they deserve another chance.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_There are a few seconds of silence between Ali’s confession and Ashlyn’s reaction._

_“Then there is absolutely no reason I should be here, Alex. I’m not going to keep coming to Germany for five minutes so we can have sex and then you can go back to living your own little perfect life in which you are not gay and all you do is play soccer and work out and go on cute little walks around Frankfurt. I’m not your best friend who you can just sleep with. I’m not your fucking experiment.”_

_“Ashlyn, I swear to God that’s not it. I swear I’m not ashamed of you. You aren’t my experiment; you’re my best friend—“_

_“AND THAT’S ALL I AM, ALI. I am your best friend. That’s it. I won’t keep coming here and falling harder and harder for you when I will never have you. I refuse to live my life hiding who I am and who I love. I won’t continue to answer your phone calls at three in the morning and I won’t Skype with you to fulfill your physical needs and I won’t kiss you because that’s not what best friends do.”_

_Ali’s anger is rising. “Oh shut up. Stop acting like you’re a fucking better person than I am just because you’re out and you’re happy and you’re completely okay with who you are. You aren’t. You aren’t better than me because you have accepted yourself. You aren’t any better than I am for knowing exactly who you are, so stop acting like you’re a fucking good person for it. You aren’t. You aren’t a good person just because you’re not afraid of what the world thinks of you. Stop pulling that holier-than-thou crap.”_

_“Listen to yourself! You’re being such a fucking bitch about this! I fell in love with you, Ali, and you can’t tell me that you didn’t feel anything, that we were just having sex, that we were just friends. You can deny it to yourself all you want but I won’t hear it.”_

_“Get the fuck out of my house.”_

_Ashlyn doesn’t budge._

_“I MEAN IT. GET THE FUCK OUT. I HATE YOU.”_

_“Alex.” Ashlyn’s voice is pleading. “Tell me one more thing and I’ll leave. Swear.” Ali doesn’t answer, so Ashlyn takes that as a cue to keep talking. “Are you in love with me?” Her voice is almost a whisper._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ashlyn twirls in a few minutes later, the mood changed from serious to lighthearted again. Hope has finished her banana and is now sitting sleepily by as Ali makes cinnamon rolls for everyone. Unsurprisingly, Ashlyn heads straight to the coffee drip and pours herself a strong cup of dark black coffee. (Hope smirks—apparently morning sex doesn’t have the same effect on her that it does on Ali.)

“Coffee?” she asks Hope, holding up the pot of steaming liquid. Hope nods and watches as Ashlyn prepares her coffee just the way she likes it—one sugar, stirred in; a spoonful of milk, and exactly three ice cubes. Hope smiles again. It makes her feel good that Ashlyn never misses a beat when it comes to Hope. Where she is silent, Ashlyn always fills the gaps.

As the three women sit at the breakfast table enjoying their coffee, Ashlyn is slow to speak. “You and Kell were up early, Hope.”

Hope nods, knowing she can’t deny that they were arguing (apparently rather loudly) one room over. “We were.”

“Working out differences?” Ashlyn asks, a flicker of hope in her eyes. Hope slowly shakes her head no, her eyes not leaving the steaming cup of coffee in her hands. “Oh. Well I hope you guys can work it out soon. We were all rooting for you two.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_There is a long pause as Ali musters up the courage to answer._

_“No,” she whispers, her eyes still locked on the floor. She tears them away from the chip in the tile and focuses them on Ashlyn with a hatred and ferocity that she can’t describe. “I am not in love with you. I never was in love with you. I never will be.”_

_The words—the inevitable words that Ashlyn knew were coming—shatter the last bit of self-control she could exhibit. She swings her fist at the wall and ignores the instant pain and white-hot shock running through her body. Everything hurts. It was all a lie, all the kisses and cuddles and showers and late-night boardgames and whispers of “I love you.” It was never true. Ashlyn had been stupid to believe anything else. With one last fleeting glance at Ali, who is crumpled on the floor weeping, she leaves._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Do you want me here?”

Kelley rolls over in bed to face Brandon. He is wearing an expression of defeat.

“What do you mean, ‘do I want you here.’ Of course I do, silly. You’re my fiancé. My team should be able to meet you.”

But he pulls away from the platonic, almost friendly hand Kelley has put on his shoulder. “Kell, we agreed that we wouldn’t hide anything from each other. I see the way you look at her. You may be avoiding her, but you still love her. You don’t know it, but you have only ever been hers.” He offers a sad smile that says more than his words do. “I’ll be fine,” he says with his eyes. “Whatever you did to her…whatever I helped you do…She loves you, Kell. I’m sure she can find it in her heart to forgive you. They always do.”

Kelley can’t believe what she is hearing. “What the hell are you talking about?” she asks. It comes out as more of a biting, accusing statement than a question.

There is no mistaking the look in Brandon’s eyes. He’s done. “Kell…” he sighs, smoothing the curly flyaways from her bun, “it was great while it lasted, but you and I both knew this was temporary.”

(Kelley had not known this was temporary. She had all intentions of being fake-happy with Brandon for the rest of her life. Kelley did not do “temporary” relationships.)

“Kelley, you had to have known that this wouldn’t work long-term. We want different things. You want soccer, I want a settled life in Georgia practicing law. I want a Southern belle; you want Hope.” He pauses and offers her a genuine, soft smile. “It’s okay to want her, Kell. You two have history—a lot of it, from what I’ve heard. She can give you more than I ever could have.”

“That’s not true!” Kelley’s voice always gets high when she’s about to cry. “We were happy, Brandon!”

Ever the good man, Brandon pulls her into his chest and holds her while she cries. (Why is she crying? She loves him. She is not in love with him, but he makes her laugh. He makes her feel safe and special and whole. He does not care that she is a little bit damaged. He would be a good father. She is not crying because she is sad, but because she is angry. Why couldn’t things just go her way for once?!)

“Kelley…please. Let us go.”

She cries harder. Any chance she had at a happy life is gone. Sure, Brandon is cookie-cutter. He was born and raised in a Savannah, Georgia. He is the oldest of six children (Kelley had also become quite fond of his parents, Jim and Judy, and his five siblings—Emma, Katherine, James, Lilly, and Brett.) He sang in the choir at the Presbyterian Church for six years and played cello in his school’s orchestra. He majored in business at Georgia Tech, and her dad was utterly obsessed with him because he could talk football and politics and God with him. He drank sweet tea out of mason jars and wanted a plantation-style home with Georgia pines and peach trees and about six kids who looked like they were straight out of a Lilly Pulitzer catalog. But Brandon was safe. She could have been happy with him and their cookie-cutter home and cookie-cutter children and cookie-cutter life. He was nice and normal and easy.

“You will be so much happier without me, Kell. You can finally be yourself! You can have everything you ever wanted!”

Hope will never love her again, and that’s all she wants. Hope is not cookie-cutter. Hope is far from normal and easy and safe. No, Hope is hard. Hope did not have a childhood in Georgia that revolved around God, football, and gravy. She grew up in Seattle, a far cry from the sunny streets of Savannah, and had to learn to fight at a young age. She didn’t have five younger siblings who thought she hung the moon. She didn’t sing in the choir or play strings for The Nutcracker. She majored in communications so she could make a little more sense of people and the way they interacted. Her mom was fascinated by Hope; her dad was a little bit intimidated. Hope did not drink sweet tea from mason jars. She preferred hot green tea from a mug. She wanted a quiet life in Seattle in her home on the Sound and lots of dogs and pine trees and alone. She didn’t want six kids or Lilly Pulitzer or stay-at-home mom. She is not safe or easy or normal or the “nice Christian boy” her parents always wanted Kelley to marry.

Not that it matters anymore. Kelley fucked that opportunity up a long time ago.

“Kelley. Honey. We can still be friends, I promise.”

Her tears turn to disgust. She has always hated the words “we can still be friends.” (It wouldn’t be so bad to just be friends with Brandon. He’d make a good one.) “I just don’t know where this all is coming from! I obviously did something wrong so just tell me and I can fix it.”

“It’s nothing you did, Kelley; you can’t help who you fall in love with. I love you; I really do. I think you are incredibly smart and funny and sweet and beautiful. You are brilliant and your giving spirit has been such an encouragement to me over the past year. But I can’t do this to you, Kelley. I can’t let you miss out on true love to settle for someone you don’t have feelings for.”

She sniffs indignantly. “I do too have feelings for you.” She pauses. “Jerk.”

Brandon laughs. “You have feelings of friendship, Kelley. Let’s face it—we would be great best friends. We’d have fun watching football together, and I’d probably be your dad’s favorite child. You and I could have a blast screaming at the TV while we watch soccer games, and eventually I might have fallen in love with you. But that’s a horrible way to live, waiting to fall in love with a person. Hoping that it might actually work out and you won’t be stuck in a loveless marriage forever. I couldn’t do that to you or myself. You deserve to be loved by someone who can give you more than a big house in Georgia and a bunch of well-dressed little kids. You deserve to know every heartache and every fight and every pain that comes with being in love. I will never be able to give you that.”

Kelley knows she has already lost. “But what about our son?” she asks quietly, tears pooling in her eyes that she stubbornly refuses to let fall.

“Our son?” Brandon’s breath has caught in his throat, and for a fleeting instance, Kelley believes he might just stay. “We’re having a son?”

She nods as a hint of hope rises in her chest. “Yeah, a boy.”

Then he kisses her forehead. “Well, our son will grow up to be strong and kind. He will have his mom’s freckles and his dad’s nose, and he’ll be the most loved child on the planet. He’ll know how much he means to his mom and his dad, and he’ll know how much they meant to each other too—it’s just that some people are like butterflies: they come into your life and make it beautiful for a little while, but they can’t stay forever. He’ll play soccer probably; maybe baseball too. He might join the band or sing in the choir, or maybe he won’t be able to carry a tune in a bucket like his mama. He’ll spend hours outside learning what it means to love the earth, and he’ll have lots of great people teaching him how to be gentle and brave and fair and courageous and strong.

“He’ll come to Georgia for holidays and play football on Thanksgiving with his aunts and uncles. His nana will let him taste the sweet potatoes before anyone else, and his granddad will let him have the first bite of fried turkey. For Christmas, maybe he will get to see Hope’s family. Maybe there will be snow and he can build a snowman in the front yard. Maybe he can put the star on top of the tree and decorate it with all sorts of ugly ornaments that nobody actually wants on their tree. Every birthday I will be there with you, no matter where you are, and I will remind him that once upon a time his mom and dad dreamed about the day he would learn to walk and ride a bike and play hopscotch. I’ll help him blow out the candles if he needs me to, and I’ll carry him from the car to his bed when he falls asleep on the way home from his party.

“There will be piano recitals and ball games and parent-teacher conferences that I won’t get to be a part of, and for his sake Hope should be there in my place. He’ll grow up knowing that love is love, and what your family looks like is not near as important as who your family is. He will know to stick up for what is right and not to stand by and watch injustice fold out in front of him. He will never have to wonder about his place in this world because it’s already laid out for him. When he gets older and asks questions about why we didn’t work out, we will tell him that love isn’t enough to make a relationship work. He will know all about respect and discipline and hard work, and he will never take a stance of neutrality because neutrality always sides with the oppressor. Our son will be the best, most amazing, well-loved child in the world.”

With that, Kelley knows that this is the last nail in the coffin. She smiles at Brandon through the tears that are dangerously close to betraying her. “Well, Brandon Wilder, it was a privilege to love you, no matter for how long.”


	6. gone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brandon is gone. Also, I had someone comment and ask what was up with the "blame Hope" angle the team is taking (and my writing, I guess.) I hope this explains it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So comes the next chapter! (Also, thank God Ali is going to be okay after that collision Friday night. I couldn't even eat supper I was so nervous for her!)

“So this is it then.”

Brandon stands in front of Kelley, his bags packed and ready to go. His hands are shoved deeply in his pockets, and he keeps glancing at the Rolex on his wrist.

“This is it,” she echoes, unsure of how to feel about the whole situation.

He sticks his arm out awkwardly for a handshake at the same time that Kelley impulsively goes in for a hug. Emotion immediately overwhelms both of them as they embrace, and Kelley wishes it didn’t hurt to see him go.

“You take care of yourself, you hear?” he says softly, bending at the waist to match her height.

Kelley is on her tiptoes, her face buried against his shoulder. She lets a single tear fall onto his pastel Lacoste polo before she whispers, “It was a good run, Brandon.”

“We did what we could,” he agrees, the sob in his throat making his voice husky. “Remember to call and text me with updates. Name suggestions, pictures of his nursery…and let me know how you’re doing.”

She breaks apart the hug and says with a sheepish grin, “Go Bulldogs.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?!” Brandon feigns offense and laughs at Kelley’s joke. She smiles too. They both know that Kelley could not be more apathetic about the rivalry between Georgia Tech and the University of Georgia, but it nice to make fun none the less.

“I’m going to miss you, Brandon. Thank you for…” Kelley’s voice trails off. What exactly does she have to thank Brandon for? She should be apologizing for using him for so long. “You’re a good man. Those are hard to find.”

Fortunately, he fills in where she can no longer speak. “Thank you for giving me the privilege of knowing you, Kell. You’re truly one of the most incredible humans alive.”

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she admits. “I didn’t always realize it, but I needed to be taken care of. I was broken, and I’m not completely whole yet, but you always made sure that I was taken care of. I don’t know how I can ever repay you for that.”

Brandon places one last kiss on top of Kelley’s head and pulls the leather strap of his duffle bag over his shoulder. As he opens the door to leave, he pauses and mouths “I love you.” And then he is gone.

Kelley sits back on the bed, smooths the sheets, and allows herself to cry.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_“This was all in their plan, you know,” Ashlyn says finally as she presses her bare chest to Ali’s warm back. “They had it strategized from the beginning.”_

_Ali voices her feelings with a sigh of contentment, cuddling closer to Ashlyn beneath the tangled sheets. “I kind of figured that was the case after they physically dragged me down here and held the door shut so we couldn’t escape.” She pauses and giggles. “I don’t know that their plan went this far, though.”_

_Her little laugh makes Ashlyn frantically kiss all over Ali’s flush, exposed skin. She feels like she’s making up for lost time._

_“Whoa, slow down there, stud. It’s been a while and I’m not ready to go again. Besides, I’m not ever going anywhere.”_

_Ashlyn pulls her in tighter and wraps her strong arms all the way around Ali’s waist. She gently presses her fingertips to the tattoo on Ali’s ribs and breathes in the scent of sweat and raspberry shampoo. “Alex?”_

_“Hmm,” Ali hums in reply, her hands rubbing Ashlyn’s forearms gently. Ashlyn can tell it’s her sleepy voice, and for as much as she has tried to forget all the little things Ali does, she remembers that Ali always strokes her arms when she’s about to fall asleep._

_“Alex…I’m sorry.”_

_Suddenly Ali is wide awake. She quickly flips over and faces Ashlyn, her eyes serious and somber. “No. You have nothing to apologize for. I was the one who was wrong. Not a day has gone by over this year that I haven’t regretted every word said in that apartment in Germany. I was horrible, Ash. I said things that nobody should ever say to anyone, not to their worst enemy and certainly not to the woman they are in love with.” Tears form at the corner of Ali’s eyes. “I’m so, so sorry for saying I wasn’t in love with you. I was so scared. I didn’t know how to be in love with you. I didn’t know what I wanted and I certainly didn’t know what I needed. I was so young and dumb and afraid.” Ali takes a deep breath. “But I do know that I’m so incredibly sorry, and if I could take back that entire day I would. I know now what I want, and I know what I need. And I want to be with you. I don’t want to have to spend a single day of the rest of my life without you, and I want to tell you every day how much I love you and how much you mean to me and that I will never, ever hurt you again.”_

_Ashlyn kisses all of Ali’s fears and tears away. “I know, baby. I know. We were both scared and angry and confused. I know. I know.”_

_“No, Ashlyn, please listen. I want to be with you. I want to be with you for the rest of our lives.”_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ali is the only one downstairs when Kelley thuds in clumsily. Her eyes are swollen and red, and she’s still wearing those too-short terrycloth shorts. Ali is just about to make a sarcastic comment about how “presentable” she looks when she gets a better look at her friend. Kelley looks like hell. She’s obviously been crying, and now the corners of her mouth are drawn into a tight line and her chin is trembling again.

“Oh sweetie.” Ali drops the measuring cup she’d been rinsing off and goes to hug Kelley. “Oh sweetie.”

“He’s gone,” Kelley whimpers. “We discussed it and now…Now he’s gone. He just…left.”

“Brandon?!” It’s Ali’s turn to be shocked. “Colgate toothpaste ad, Lacoste-wearing, Rolex-owning, Southern gentleman BRANDON?!”

Kelley offers a meek nod. “He said that we were temporary and that we will be good friends and he’s still going to be a part of the baby’s life, but…he said…” She swallows hard. “He said that I’m in love with someone else, and that he can’t be the one to trap me in a loveless marriage.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” Ali is confused. All Kelley has been talking about the whole time she has been in D.C. is Hope. (Hope looks like an angry lion today. Hope is so funny. Hope is happy today. Hope is so beautiful. I shouldn’t have hurt Hope. I wish I could be with Hope.) “He’s a good man, Kell. He’ll be a good daddy, and you’ll have your second chance.”

“I don’t get to make those choices anymore, Ali. He left and Hope left and now I’m alone, and I’m no good at being alone. I’m scared.” Kelley begins crying again, and Ali almost gives in to the beast of emotion rising in her chest.

Don’t do it, Ali. Don’t do it. You can’t cry right now. Kelley and Hope are not you and Ashlyn. I know it hurts a lot right now, but you can’t give in. You have to be strong.

Ali prays again that she can stop feeling everything so damn much just for a few minutes, but it’s no use. She is no longer bigger than her emotion, and she and Kelley cry together in the kitchen.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_“What if she says no?!”_

_Hope starts laughing so hard that Ashlyn worries she may fall off the bed. “ ‘What if she says no?!’ ”_

_“I’m serious, Solo. I mean, this is Ali we are talking about. She’s all sunshine and butterflies and flowers and rainbows and puppies and she’s from the land of happy little water fairies. And I’m…well I’m me. I’m all thunderstorm and tornado and like…from the land of crappy childhood and fights in the high school cafeteria.”_

_She stops laughing for just long enough to turn down the corner of the book she’s reading—Ashlyn hasn’t been paying much attention to much of anyone but Ali these past few weeks, but it’s something thick by Tolstoy or some other author that she has no interest in—and throw her hands over her head. “You’re honest to God worried that she will say no.”_

_Ashlyn nods, and Hope cracks up again like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard in her entire life._

_“WHAT IF SHE SAYS NO!!!!!” Hope howls, doubled over as she slaps her knees. She stays that way for another few minutes as Ashlyn stands by, hands on her hips and one knee cocked, her eyes hard._

_“Thanks for all the help, Solo. See if I ever tell you anything again.” And with that, she heads toward the door, making an executive decision that telling Hope was a bad idea and she should have stuck to Christie or Sydney or even freaking Buehler._

_“WHAT IF SHE SAYS NO,” Hope is still laughing, unable to catch her breath or speak clearly._

_Kelley passes Ashlyn in the hotel hallway. She only briefly pauses at the door to the room Ashlyn shares with Hope. “She’s weird, huh.” (Ashlyn finds this amusing—Kelley, who drinks chocolate milk with dinner and sings music from Les Miserables during warmups and hugs feral cats and feeds swans and randomly sets a picture of a squirrel as Jill’s wallpaper, thinks Hope Solo is weird.)_

_Cheney and HAO are in their room with the deadbolt propping the door open. Ashlyn doesn’t even think to knock as she enters—Cheney announced an “open door policy” to her room a long time ago, and that’s the way it has been ever since. There are normally at least ten girls strewn across the room at a time, all limbs, piled into an exhausted heap, on the floor and the bed and crowded into the hotel room chair. Ashlyn is almost always included in this crowd, there to vent after a frustrating day or sit in silence as they all lazily toss around casual conversation in the evenings or cram six girls onto each double bed to watch a movie. (HAO always brings movies. Always. One time she had popped in a pirated copy of “Safe Haven” and had absolutely no clue that it was illegal.)_

_Not to her surprise, HAO is barefoot and stretched across the far bed on her back, her legs pressed to the wall above her head as she studies them intently. Cheney is sitting cross-legged next to her, doodling a fake tattoo on HAO’s forehead. (They’re weird too, Ashlyn thinks to herself as she throws herself onto the vacant bed; everyone on this team is fucking weird.) The sun is low in the sky, painting a golden hour across the wall. Cheney always has the curtains in their room open. She says it reminds her of home._

_“I have a problem,” Ashlyn announces loudly just in case they either didn’t hear her fall onto the mattress with a heavy sigh or chose to ignore it._

_Cheney barely glances up, and her eyes flicker toward the floor by the sliding glass door onto the balcony. (Somehow Cheney always gets a room with a balcony. Ashlyn doesn’t get that either.) Ali, Tobin, and A-Rod are in a heap on the ugly carpet, staring straight up at the ceiling. A-Rod’s head shoots up at the first hint of drama._

_“Prepared to share that problem with extra ears?” Cheney asks in her usual calm voice, moving on to braiding HAO’s ponytail._

_Ashlyn always vents to Cheney. It’s been that way since her first call-up. Cheney’s room is always open, she’s always calm, and she always gives good advice. “No,” she admits, nudging the pile of girls on the floor with her toe. “Hey, sleepy heads, clear out. I need the room.”_

_Tobin is the first to stand, and Ashlyn can see clearly now that she has calculator buttons imprinted on her cheek. (Weird. This whole team is fucking weird, she thinks again.) Ali is quick to follow and is still tired enough that she completely ignores Ashlyn, who is face-down on the bed closest to the door._

_“What if she says no?” Ashlyn asks the second the door shuts and she is left alone with Cheney and HAO (and A-Rod, who “swears to God she isn’t listening.”)_

_“Who?!”_

_A-Rod blew her own cover in record time, Ashlyn says to herself. Of course Amy would inject herself into the conversation, listen intently, and go share the news with whoever would listen—probably Abby or Kling._

_“Ali, dummy. Ash is going to propose.”_

_It’s only then that Ashlyn sees Sydney curled up beneath about six pillows and blankets on the floor between the beds. As hard as she can, she hurls a pillow at Syd’s face._

_“Oohhhh,” A-Rod says slowly. “Well duh she’ll say yes. Don’t be all insecure, Ash. It’s super unattractive.”_

_“What’s super unattractive?”_

_The door swings open again to reveal Ali, barefoot and back for her phone charger._

_Ashlyn buries her face in the hotel comforter. It’s going to be a struggle to keep this secret for much longer._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Hope wakes up in a cold sweat.

She hadn’t planned on falling back asleep, especially after that cup of coffee she had downed, but she’d climbed back in bed to check her phone and before she knew it, she was back in dreamland.

Or flashback land.

Her mind clouds over as she remembers the moment. It was right after she’d overheard Kelley on the phone, gushing in a high-pitched voice to someone about how much she loved them and making suggestive remarks louder than she should. It couldn’t have been more evident that Kelley wanted her to hear the conversation if she had grabbed her by the wrist and said, “Come listen to me on the phone with my home wrecker!” The look on Kelley’s face had said it all. She may have wanted to be caught, but she hadn’t planned on it hurting this much. There was guilt and shame and pain etched into every line of her face.

Hope had known for a while that Kelley was unhappy. She’d been tired, withdrawn, short-tempered, and mean. What she hadn’t known was that Kelley was miserable enough to look for a way out of what she and Hope had become.

Kelley didn’t have to say anything else after she hung up the phone. She knew that Hope knew, and Hope knew that she knew, that it was over. They sat down on the edge of the bed together, their legs touching comfortably even though Hope knew it was a bad idea and it would only make it harder to walk out on Kelley. A silence hung in the air like fog as they stared straight ahead or at the floor but never at each other.

“It can be my fault.” Hope finally spoke, surprising both of them. “And as far as I’m concerned, it is. They don’t have to know about him or her or…or whoever the hell that was on the other end of that conversation.”

The look of shame on Kelley’s face was replaced with one of shock. “Hope, I—I…I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do, Kell. They don’t know that you’ve been…They don’t know that you…” She couldn't quite bring herself to say the words, but they both knew what she was trying to get across—they don’t think that you would ever hurt me, there’s still time for you to get out, it doesn’t have to be your fault. “They probably won’t ask. It’ll be my fault. You can say that whoever that was is an old friend who comforted you after I broke your heart, and you didn’t mean to but you both developed feelings. They might think it’s quick, a rebound or something, but they won’t ask. Ashlyn might, but I can handle her. You don’t have to be tied down to me and my baggage any more.”

“Hope, it’s not that I don’t love you, it’s that…”

“That what?” Hope had flinched. Her words had come out way more harsh than she had intended. “That you ‘need space?’” She made sure to lower her tone for the second comment.

Kelley had hung her head. “I didn’t think it would come to this,” she had mumbled as Hope stood to leave.

“Come to what? To cheating on me?”

More shame and guilt and pain. Kelley tensed.

“I’m going to let you go, Kelley. I have to. It’s going to hurt a whole hell of a lot, but I can’t hold on any more. It’s going to kill me if I try to hold on. Please let me go too. Please go be happy with someone else,” Hope had said softly. “We can forget this ever happened, and some day they all will too. Stick to the story and there shouldn’t be any problems.” Then she had pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Kelley’s head and walked out.

She made it all the way to the Carli’s room two doors down before she had collapsed in the hotel hallway, too weak and too ashamed and too damn proud to cry in front of Kelley.

Hope had been right. Nobody had really questioned anything. By the time team dinner rolled around that night, Abby and Boxxy had managed to get Hope looking somewhat composed. Kelley, on the other hand, lost it a total of three times at dinner, making her bread soggy and her chicken cold and her green beans taste bland. They all protected Kelley—rubbed her back, whispered in her ear, offered empty statements like “it will all be okay, I promise”, held her as she shook with the tears that consumed her entire body. Nobody asked what happened. Nobody even guessed. They assumed it was Hope, and Hope thinks it would have been easier if they were right.

Six months later and Ali is still the only person Hope has confessed to. (Well, excluding her therapist. She had been seeing a sports psychologist in Seattle since April.) The whole team had placed blame on Hope without knowing the whole situation, because nobody would ever dream Kelley O’Hara capable of breaking hearts. (Hope was a bit of a human wrecking ball.) Kelley had introduced them all to Brandon at the media summit three months after she had ruined everything with Hope. She seemed bright and happy and in love—she was seven weeks pregnant—and everyone tried to ignore the fact that Hope still seemed dark and twisty and depressed because Kelley was okay and if Kelley was okay then Hope should have been too.

There had not been any questions raised as to how fast Kelley seemed to move on. Other than a quiet, almost reverent murmur in the locker room—Pinoe to Syd about how Kelley rebounded rather quickly which was good considering that holding on to Hope for too long could be toxic; Abby and Pearcie with glances that suggested they were a bit apprehensive but glad that Kelley could still find love after Hope Solo; Boxxy to Cheney about how Kelley was so strong and optimistic that of course she could heal from such heartbreak—nobody had really said much of anything. The team continued to ostracize Hope whenever she came around. The silent blame hung like a rain cloud over Hope’s shoulders, and she was strangely okay with it. It gave her a reason to throw herself a pity party.

Hope squeezes her eyes shut. She wishes she could erase the whole memory of that day in January—erase the last six months, really. She wishes that Ali wasn’t so good and sweet and that she had just let it slip that it wasn’t Hope’s fault or did nobody find it even a LITTLE strange that Kelley had rebounded so quickly?! But no. Ali has been tight-lipped in the locker room, never saying much of anything about the whole damn thing other than to say quietly, “I think we should talk about something else.” Damn her for keeping her promise so well. She wishes that she could tell them all that it was always Kelley. It always has been,

Before she can think any harder about the nightmare, there’s a quick knock on the door. Ashlyn enters without waiting for a proper answer. Beckett is snuggled against her hip, his light hair wavy from sleep and his cheek smushed into her shoulder.

“Thought you were already up, Solo.”

Hope blinks the sleep out of her eyes and stands, taking Beckett from her friend. “Power nap. By the way, your wife is crying in the kitchen. You should probably check in on that.”

With Beckett in her arms, she watches as Ashlyn’s expression changes from amused to confused. She shakes her head once and heads back down the stairs, Hope not far behind. (This could be pretty interesting, and Hope is not one to miss out on anything “interesting.”)

By the time they are downstairs, Ali and Kelley are both done crying. Ali has moved on to soothingly rubbing Kelley’s back and occasionally saying something in a soft, sweet murmur. The cinnamon rolls are in the oven and the doors to the back patio are thrown open to let in the early morning sunshine.

Ali barely glances up when the three of them enter the kitchen. “Cinnamon rolls will be ready in a few. Can you get out the orange juice, Ash?”

(Ashlyn can barely believe her ears. There is potential drama and Ali is worried about breakfast?)

“What’s been going on here?” Ashlyn asks challengingly, setting the pitcher of orange juice down on the kitchen counter rather forcefully. “Hope said you guys were crying?”

Hope cringes. Ashlyn is almost too blunt sometimes, and she really hadn’t planned on Kelley or Ali knowing that she had walked in on their little moment earlier. “I didn’t say that,” she counters quickly. “I just said that maybe Ashlyn should check in.”

“Brandon left,” Kelley says plainly, her eyes no longer blank or sad. Hope almost smiles. “We talked this morning and he said he can’t ruin my life.”

This is so like the Kelley that Hope once knew, simple and accepting and easygoing—the Kelley who ate chocolate chip cookies for breakfast and let the dogs onto the bed and sometimes talked in a British accent just to be funny. For more than a moment, her heart aches.

Brandon is gone. Without Brandon, Hope would still be in the picture. But now she and Brandon are in the same boat.

Hope, like Brandon, is gone.


	7. three words that became hard to say.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I and Love and You.

Ali is upstairs sitting on the bed five minutes before the party is supposed to start.

She knows she should be downstairs greeting their guests and taking presents and thanking everyone for coming, but instead she is sitting on her bed and staring at the floor in front of her.

Enough time has passed now that she knows most of what there is to know about second chances, but sometimes it overwhelms her all at once. At one time she had thought that she didn’t deserve forgiveness, that she had run out of second chances, that she had done enough to lose any love that she was given. She knows now that there is enough love and enough grace to cover anything she could have ever done. She knows that love is so much bigger than any inadequacy or mistake or shortcoming, and still she is often overwhelmed by how much she has been given. God knows she’s done enough to be cold to love, to harden hearts to the very idea of her, to be completely undeserving of any good thing in this life—yet she has everything she has ever wanted.

“Hey, Alex?” Ashlyn’s sweet voice calls through the door. “The party is starting.”

When there is no response from Ali other than a dramatic sniff, she gently pushes the door open and comes to sit on the bed beside her.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” she asks, nudging the toe of Ali’s gold sandals with the tip of her own black Vans sneaker. She leans into Ali’s shoulder and bites her lower lip expectantly.

There is another pause before Ali even looks at Ashlyn, her hazel eyes round and brimming with tears. “I just love you so much.”

“Hey, this is a happy time. No tears,” she says softly, swiping her thumb over Ali’s cheekbones. “Today is for celebration. There were enough tears on this day a year ago to last through today.”

With that, Ali sighs heavily and drops her head onto Ashlyn’s shoulder. “It’s not even fair that I get to be your wife, you know that? And that we get to have Beckett, and he gets to be loved by all these beautiful people? Sometimes I just think about how much love we have in our lives, and I just—I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank God enough.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_“She probably got cold feet and doesn’t want to marry me,” Ashlyn says glumly, her face twisted into a frown._

_Whitney glances up from the little mirror she’s using to reapply her lipstick. “Oh shut up, Harris. Don’t be so doom-and-gloom. It’s Ali we’re talking about here. She’s late for everything. Just be patient.”_

_At that precise moment, Sydney sticks her head in nervously and spots Ashlyn immediately, breaking into a relieved smile. “Oh. Hey. You’re needed in the bridal suite.”_

_“Told you,” Ashlyn says to Whitney in an Eeyore voice on her way out, “she doesn’t want to go through with it any more.”_

_Syd tilts her head and rolls her eyes at Ashlyn in a look that says “seriously?”_

_“I knew that it was too good to be true. Ali couldn’t really want to marry me. I’m just a kid from Satellite Beach who can’t keep her mouth shut and leaves dirty clothes on the floor and drinks too much coffee and—“_

_“She’s in there,” Syd interrupts, pointing to the door just ahead of them. “And don’t be too hard on her, okay? She’s super emotional right now.”_

_It takes every bone in Ashlyn’s body to not turn and run the other way. She doesn’t want to hear what Ali is going to say—I love you but I can’t marry you, I love you but I’m not ready to be out, I love you but I think we are better as friends. Before she can bolt, though, Kyle has swung open the door, grabbed her by the wrist, and is pulling her into the bridal suite._

_Shit._

_Ali is an absolute vision in her dress. Ashlyn can’t help but drop her jaw and stare. She’s always beautiful, but today she is absolutely breathtaking. In fact, Ashlyn almost chokes and only remembers to breathe again when the door shuts with a heavy thud and she is left alone with Ali. Her stomach drops again. Of course there’s a reason Ali is ruining her mascara by crying right before she is supposed to get married._

_“Is everything okay?” Ashlyn asks hoarsely, unable to look her directly in the eye._

_Ali offers a feeble nod, biting her lower lip and furiously blinking back a fresh round of tears._

_“So why aren’t you walking that cute little butt down the aisle,” Ashlyn teases, nudging her own shoulder into Ali’s. She’s trying to hide her nerves but knows she’s unsuccessful._

_“I love you,” Ali whispers, her hand resting on Ashlyn’s. “I love you so much it shouldn’t be allowed.”_

_“But…” Ashlyn adds in preparation for what is coming next, bracing herself for the worst. Ali has hurt her before, it wouldn’t be too off-the-mark for her to do it again._

_“But nothing. I just don’t deserve you at all, Ashlyn. I didn’t deserve you then and I don’t deserve you now. I can’t believe I am lucky enough to love you. I have done nothing to deserve you. I just…” And Ali is crying again, this time while holding on to Ashlyn like she physically can’t breathe without her._

_Ashlyn can feel herself losing composure too, her chest aching with all the love in her heart for her best friend. “You’re an incredible human being and I can’t believe I get to marry you.” She doesn’t know if she can say anything else without crying. (If she wasn’t about to stand in front of a whole sanctuary of people who were expecting to watch them declare their love for each other and make a covenant in front of God and everybody, she would have kept going. She had to save some of herself for the vows, though. Ali deserved that authentic moment. Otherwise she would have launched into all the things she loved about her right then and there.) “Now dry it up, princess. If I remember correctly, we have a wedding to attend about, oh, ten minutes ago.”_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Hey, I love you more, goofball,” Ashlyn says back after a prolonged silence, still not quite sure what’s going on. “And are you okay?”

Ali punches Ashlyn’s arm, half-teasing, half-angry. “Come on, am I not allowed to say how much I love you and I’m thankful for you?”

“Okay, okay.” Ashlyn laughs and rubs her bicep, then takes a deep breath and looks into Ali’s eyes. “We are really lucky. All these strong and amazing women we get to call our family? All these girls who are here to celebrate the fact that our son has been alive for a year? You’re right. We’re surrounded by the most beautiful people in the world.”

“You’re my favorite human, you know that?” Ali sighs, pressing a kiss into the corner of Ashlyn’s mouth. “And I can’t wait for Beckett to be a big brother.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_“Alex, I could have sworn the first time that we met that I could never possibly love someone as much as I loved you in that moment. Well, years have gone by and I have only fallen more and more in love with you. Right now, standing here with you in front of the people we love most, I swear I have never loved anyone more than I love you in this very second. But I’ve said that before, and I’m sure I’ll say it again, and I don’t like to break promises, so here is what I can be sure of: I swear that I will always try to say ‘yes’ even if I don’t want the dog or the new pair of shoes taking up space in the closet or the chocolate ice cream in my freezer. I swear that I will always let you have the last brownie even if it’s a corner piece. I swear that I will always have coffee waiting for you when you wake up in the mornings. I swear that I will always support you and be your biggest fan in whatever you do. I swear that I will always try to make things right where I am wrong, and even when I am right I will let you think you are. I swear that I will listen to everything you have to say even if you have already told me the same story fifteen times._

_“I swear that I will never go to bed angry with you, and if I do go to bed angry I promise I am just tired and grumpy and I will be in a better mood when I wake up. I swear that I will always put you first. I swear that I will spend my whole life trying to thank you for all the love and happiness that you have used to turn my world upside down. I swear that I will work hard to make things work even if we are both on the edge of giving up. I swear that I will never hurt you, and if I do I swear that I will not give up until I have kissed away every last worry and doubt and drop of anger you may have. I swear that I will be my very best for you every single day. I swear that I will never leave you, and I swear that I will spend every second of every day of the rest of my life loving every part of you, because you are my whole world. Alex, there will never be enough words in the world to possibly express how much I love and admire you. Thank you and I love you endlessly.”_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Maybe someday…” Ashlyn says in a dreamy voice, her eyes somewhere far off. “We can try again soon.” She sighs at the thought of another baby, maybe a little brown-headed, doe-eyed miniature Ali running around. (A baby Ali would most certainly be a handful, but the thought makes Ashlyn swoon.)

“Or maybe not,” Ali answers slowly.

Ashlyn is completely lost. She swims in her own confusion for a few minutes, thinking about the sly little “or maybe not” and smug grin Ali had managed to sneak into the conversation. What did that even mean? One second she was talking about Beckett having a little brother or sister (sooner rather than later, as they had discussed and tried for a few times) and the next she was offering a smug little “maybe not.”

“Okay, maybe not?” she repeats, her eyes locked dead on Ali’s in complete confusion. “We could adopt a dog, I guess. I think Abby might have gotten him a puppy anyway, so that would probably be easier than trying to bring a new baby into the mix, but—“

“I meant, we probably shouldn’t try soon. That would be a lot.”

Ashlyn nods, trying not to let the disappointment show. “Yeah, totally. I mean I know you were super discouraged after the last round of IVF so I thought maybe you would want to, but I totally understand that may be too much emotionally right now; that’s a really emotional thing to go through, so—“

“Ashlyn, are you not listening to me? I mean we absolutely, without a doubt, SHOULD NOT try again any time in the next seven-ish months.”

“Okay Alex, I get that.” Ashlyn can feel the frustration in her voice. She’s not dumb, she knows what Ali is saying. There’s no need to keep repeating herself. “Maybe we’ll be more ready in a year or so. We can give it a break for a little while, just enjoy Beck and soccer and such, and—“

“No, you don’t get it,” Ali says, smiling coyly. (Why is she smiling when Ashlyn can only feel herself getting slightly perturbed? It’s Ali who’s supposed to have the temper, not Ash.) “Like, we physically CANNOT try again any time soon, unless you want to be the one who gets pregnant again since you just looovvveeeddd it last time—“

“Okay, I could do that, but I just—“

Suddenly Ali’s mind is very one-track again, and she’s talking about Ashlyn getting pregnant again instead of clearing the air around Ashlyn’s confusion. “Like hell you want to be pregnant again ever. You complained the whole nine months. ‘My back hurts.’ ‘My boobs are huge.’ ‘It’s too hot in here.’ ‘I miss soccer.’ ‘I cannot get comfortable.’ It was relentless, Ash. If you get pregnant again, not only will we have our hands full but hell just might freeze over.”

“Well I want another baby, and I would be willing to go through that hell again if it meant we got that cute little chubby-cheeked baby so maybe you should just—“

Ali cut Ashlyn off before she could finish her challenging statement. “Good God Ashlyn, how much more clear do I need to be?! Wondering why I’ve been kinda ‘off’ the last few weeks?! I’m pregnant, Ash. The last round worked after all.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_“Ash…the last thing in the world that I expected was to fall in love with you, with your smile, with your laugh, with your stories, with your heart. This has been a long road—to those on the outside anything but a fairytale, and to us anything but convenient and nothing short of wonderful. We spent years saying goodbye. We spent years waiting for the next time we would get to see each other again. We spent years in airports—layovers, long drives, late night Skype calls were the norm for us. And me—well I spent years trying to convince myself that I deserved you. I spent years knowing that no matter what came my way, we were worth it. You showed me what true love is, that it doesn’t always come in the way you think it will, that it is so much bigger than any shortcoming or mistake or insecurity._

_“I vow to you that no matter what I will always be on your backline in life, always protect you. I vow that I will never smack my food at the table and try not to whistle in the shower. I vow that I will always be your best friend before I am anything else. I vow that I will spend every second of every minute of every day loving you. I vow that I will never leave you and I will never hurt you. I vow that I will try not to buy too many shoes and only get chocolate ice cream every now and then. The best decision I ever made was to let you in. You’ve made it easy to say ‘I love you.’ You’re always the mac to my cheese, the peanut butter to my jelly. You’re always my number one. I love you more than the stars.”_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ashlyn and Ali go downstairs together, hand-in-hand, both with piano grins across their faces. By now, all their guests have arrived. A room full of the people they love the most—Ali’s mom, stepdad, and dad; Kyle; Ashlyn’s grandparents; their teammates; lifelong friends—await them. Beckett is sitting on Abby’s knee, drooling as everyone around him laughs hysterically at a joke Pinoe told. The pile of presents for their son, Ashlyn observes, is bigger than the one she was faced with loading into the car after their wedding shower. (She has to smile at this. No one-year-old needs that many gifts.)

Hope is sitting on the couch, sandwiched between Debbie (Ali’s mom) and Sydney. She looks happy, Ali says to herself with a grin. It’s good to see Hope looking really, truly happy again. Kelley is on the floor sitting cross-legged and leaning back against Hope’s shins. (Ali is not naive enough to believe that things between the two of them changed that suddenly, but the sight gives her a chest full of optimism anyway.) She has a party hat on and is sipping some of the pineapple punch that Ashlyn’s grandma made. The whole team looks happy, actually. Everyone looks happy. It almost makes Ali cry.

“Hey,” Ashlyn whispers, squeezing Ali’s hand reassuringly. “Let’s get this show on the road so I can get you to bed.”

Ali would have normally laughed and returned Ashlyn’s comment with a suggestive comment, but she instead rolls her eyes. She knows what Ashlyn meant—she didn’t want to take Ali to bed so they could have sex, she wants to get her into bed because she’s already being overprotective and wants to pamper Ali and treat her like a princess now that she knows that Ali is carrying precious cargo. “I wish that meant what I want it to,” she says, nudging her hip into Ashlyn’s.

The party goes on, and it becomes almost impossible to speak over the amount of howling laughter and five different conversations happening at the same time. Ali wouldn’t have it any other way. Beckett is tearing into the presents with his little chubby fists and trying to shove tissue paper into his mouth. He’s already “opened” about six different pairs of Nike shoes, a few Adidas sweatsuits, a miniature goal, some books (most certainly from Becky and Buehler), and a miniature Jeep from Ashlyn’s grandparents. The food is already almost gone—thank God they made a separate smash cake for Beckett—and almost everyone has abandoned their shoes. Kelley is now casually sprawled across the floor with her head in Tobin’s lap, laughing at Beckett’s frustrated yell when he can’t tear into a cardboard box.

“He should probably open this one next.”

Ashlyn comes in from upstairs with a gift that has evidently been thrown together in a very short amount of time. It’s in a sack from Victoria’s Secret (Ali knows that Ashlyn most definitely found the sack abandoned somewhere upstairs because Ashlyn despises Victoria’s Secret) and the tissue paper inside is actually an old newspaper. Before Ali can give her a look that says “what the hell,” Ashlyn just nods confidently at her.

“I got this, babe,” she says, plopping down on the floor and pulling Beckett into her lap. “Hey buddy, let’s see what Mama got for you!”

In that exact moment, Ali knows exactly what’s going on. She pulls out her phone and opens Instagram to video. Beckett stares hard at the newspaper (tissue paper) as he pulls it from the Victoria’s Secret sack.

Kling is cracking up. “Nice wrapping, Ash.”

“You’ll see,” Ashlyn smiles, smoothing her son’s hair as he reaches a little further into the sack and comes out with a solid black tee shirt in his fist. “What is it, baby? Show everyone what it says!”

With a little help, Beckett is holding up the tee. (It’s not a toy so he could not be any less interested.) He blinks in surprise when the entire room erupts in cheers and a few girls jump to their feet.

Kelley, Becky, Kling, Tobin, Abby, Boxxy, and A-Rod are all tackling at Ashlyn before anyone can do anything else. “You DOG!” A-Rod yells, fist-pumping. “I called this a long time ago!”

The room finally calms down a few minutes later, and Ali is slightly disappointed that they all think it’s Ashlyn who’s pregnant. (Ashlyn despised being pregnant. She said it was miserable and horrific and unimaginable.) The thought of other presents has been abandoned. Beckett is now attack-kissing Kyle’s face and everyone else is trying to talk over each other.

“Ashlyn, you hated being pregnant,” reasons a lone voice over the chaos.

Ashlyn turns to face Dawn Scott. Dawn, being their fitness coach, catches the brunt of a lot of their team jokes, but they all love her like she’s their mom. “Well I never said I was the one who’s pregnant,” she answers, winking at Ali.

Ali’s heart beats a little faster. All the money or success or things in the world could never make her happier than Ashlyn Harris.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

It’s quiet now, as Hope is alone in Ali and Ashlyn’s kitchen putting away dishes. The sun has long-since set on their little party, leaving only the warmth that Hope has come to be rather fond of and a hazy orange glow low in the sky over Capitol Hill. The calm comes as a relief for Hope after a day of pure noise. She’s never been too good with big crowds. They always overwhelm her and make her feel small, and for as long as she can remember Hope Solo has liked to feel large and in control. There’s too much conversation, and Hope has always liked to be able to follow along and listen intently to one at a time. She’s better, though. Before Kelley came along, Hope would shut down emotionally in a crowd, feeling lost and forgotten in a sea of faces. After Kelley, she found that she could handle the vastness with a deep breath and telling herself that nobody was against her. She could be a part of the crowd, even—hold a conversation, laugh, talk over the voices surrounding. After Kelley, she didn’t feel so lost anymore. She didn’t feel like she needed to constantly have the floor when she spoke.

There is a pang in Hope’s stomach as she realizes that this has become how she thinks of her life—Before Kelley and After Kelley. As much as she has tried to think of it as “old Hope” and “new Hope”…she knows it will never be “old Hope” or “new Hope.” It’s always been Before Kelley and After Kelley. The familiar ache in her chest starts to return, and Hope tries to swallow it back. She doesn’t want to hurt anymore. Her therapist told her one time that “hurting people hurt people,” and she has seen it that way ever since. When she is hurt, other people will be the goat of her anger. It’s best to just not feel it. Everyone will be better off if she doesn’t give in to the pain. What kind of person would she be if she let the hurt control her? She would be too much like she was Before Kelley; too much of “old Hope.”

She’s happy here. For the first time, Hope is able to be alone…and happy. She never thought the two could go hand-in-hand. Alone was so miserable. She was no good at being alone. It left her too much time to think; too much time to get herself into a predicament. And when she was with someone else—Jerramy, before he became as miserable as she was; the team; her dad; Kelley—she felt happier. For Hope, “alone” has always been synonymous to “unhappy.” She’s glad that she no longer feels that way. In fact, she has come to enjoy occasional solitude, and even in the quiet she won’t let her thoughts get the best of her. She’s come to realize that being alone and being lonely are two completely different things. One can be enjoyed, the other can only be hated. She’s happy, and she has learned that she has to be happy and her own person before she can be anyone else’s.

Hope has not said the words “I love you” since she last kissed Kelley. She has tried; it has been too hard. She has been able to laugh—joyous, carefree, head-thrown-back, rib-aching, pee-your-pants laughter with her teammates. She has been able to smile—she smiles a lot more these days, at people on the streets and dogs and little kids and at her friends. She’s been able to say that she enjoys the company, because she truly does. She doesn’t have much of a family other than her team. (For a long time, Jerramy was her only family. She didn’t talk to her mom much, and her stepfather and step siblings all ostracized her.) She eats meals with Pinoe and her girlfriend some weekends; sometimes she road trips to Portland to hang out with Tobin. She’s been to see Sydney and Alex and their husbands in Kansas City, and she has visited Ali and Ashlyn once or twice. She loves them—she really does. Those three words just won’t come out when she thinks of them.

I and love and you.

It’s possible that in the past few days Hope has learned more about life than she had ever known before. In loving her and loving each other so well, her teammates have taught her to be kind and forgiving and accepting and hardworking and strong. They have been there for one another at the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. They have shown her that they are thick as thieves and that they will always stick up for their own. They have been brave at times, scared at times, and brave when they are scared. They have been loyal no matter what. They have been kind and generous, and kind even when others are not at all kind or generous. They’ve taught her to stand up for herself and to stand up for others. They have taught her to stand with others, most importantly. They have been more than a team, they have been her family. She can’t believe how much they have given her. She doesn’t deserve all that they’ve been for her.

Without her team, Hope would have fallen apart months, if not years, ago. She wouldn’t have won that allusive World Cup. She wouldn’t have given up her anger. She wouldn’t have fallen deeply, madly, and endlessly in love with Kelley O’Hara, who has taught her maybe more than anyone. She wouldn’t be in this mess, and strangely enough that thought is almost heartbreaking. Without this mess, who would Hope be—and where would she be? She shakes her head as she dries a wine glass and puts it back on the rack. It’s crazy how much this game has both given and taken from Hope’s life. She is finally content with where she is, even if there will always be a Kelley-shaped hole in her chest.

Speaking of Kelley, she is in the living room with Boxxy and Carli, picking up the last remnants of gift wrap and tissue paper from the party. Her laughter rings into the kitchen—real, hearty laughter brought on by a preposterous idea proposed by Carli—and Hope smiles subconsciously. That laugh has always been one of her favorite things about Kelley. That, and the fact that Kelley was everything Hope was not. Kelley is childish. (Hope has been an adult since she was about seven years old.) Kelley is easygoing. (Hope has a heard time relaxing.) Kelley is free in a way that is hard to explain, like the only thing that matters in the world is that love is seen and given and received. (Hope still feels bound by the chains of things she’s done, she’s said, she’s seen.) Kelley is a bright light. (Hope wonders if she is the darkness.) Kelley is kind and forgiving and simple and genuine and trusting and gracious. She’s perfect, really. She laughs at everything. She listens to stories with her eyes fixed the whole time on those of whoever is speaking like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. She cares about people, always checking on them and making sure they are doing well. Kelley is hard to describe because she’s both the most intelligent person Hope has ever met as well as the most simplistic and simple-minded. She’s the calm before the storm.

“Hope?”

Carli’s voice brings Hope out of her deep thoughts. She and Boxxy have appeared in the kitchen entryway, and Hope glances around them quickly—no Kelley to be seen.

“Kell told us everything at dinner.”

The team, excluding Ali and Hope, had gone out for dinner courtesy of Ali’s dad and his girlfriend. After such a crazy day, Hope felt that her senses had been in overdrive and had opted to stay back on the promise of cleaning up the kitchen. Really, she had just needed some peace and quiet, and the fact that Ali had crashed at 5:30 before they had even left for dinner ensured that she would be able to just work in the silence for a while. After dinner, most of the team had caught flights back home. Boxxy, Kelley, Carli, Christie, Abby, and Hope were the exceptions—they didn’t leave until the next morning. Christie and Abby are on the back porch with Ashlyn talking the seemingly inevitability of the NWSL, which has been on a decline since the World Cup due to funding.

Hope swallows. “Oh.”

Before she can react further, Boxxy has wrapped her up in a hug. “I am so, so sorry for assuming, Hope. Forgive me for assuming. Forgive me for not being the friend to you that I should have been.”

She is left speechless. Sure, Boxxy is a veteran like she is. She played in four World Cups, and she has been on Hope’s list of “favorite teammates” for a long time. Boxxy has always been kind and reasonable, quick to forgive or even brush off Hope’s mistakes on and off the field. She’s always taken up for Hope and made sure that she knew that she was in her corner. As far as Hope is concerned, there is no apology needed. She hugs right back. “No apology needed, Shan. I let you assume. I hoped you would assume, even. No hard feelings and no offense taken.”

In tears, Boxxy turns to go join Ashlyn, Christie, and Abby on the porch. It’s Carli’s turn to look like a child who just got caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She doesn’t even have to speak before Hope is holding her arms out wide and waiting for the embrace. It takes a moment, but Hope realizes that Carli is crying as they hold each other. If there is anyone on the team who is more notoriously unemotional than Kelley O’Hara, it’s Carli Lloyd. She’s more of a “hold it all in until you get home” person, and when she gets home Hope has always assumed that the emotion is no longer fresh so there is no longer a reason to cry. But here and now, in Ali and Ashlyn’s kitchen, Carli Lloyd is weeping into Hope’s shoulder.

“I was a terrible best friend. I thought you would hurt her irreparably. I thought you would end up killing her with misery. I was so horrible. I wish I could have a redo. I don’t deserve to be your best friend.”

Hope strokes her back, holds her tighter than she has ever held her before, and tries to say without words that she forgives her, that it’s not her fault, that she doesn’t blame her.

“I’m so sorry. I am such an asshole.”

“You are an asshole, but you had no way to know the truth,” Hope replies, grinning into Carli’s ponytail. “Now go along and stop crying before I think that you actually have a heart.”

She is still smiling from the apologies her friends offered up—and her phone continues to vibrate in her back pocket with what she knows are “I’m sorry” texts from the rest of her teammates—when there is a small voice behind her.

“Hope?”

Kelley is standing behind her, changed back into those terrycloth shorts and that damn Stanford hoodie.

“Hope, I haven’t been able to say ‘I love you’ in a really long time and I’m starting to worry that I can’t love anyone ever again.”


	8. next to you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for those of you who read purely for Ali/Ashlyn...This is the Hope/Kelley situation coming to a head. There are maybe three more chapters coming. I can't thank you all enough for all your encouragement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off the song "Lay Me Down" by Sam Smith because how perfect and how fitting.

_Yes I do, I believe_  
_That one day I will be where I was  
Right there, right next to you_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The dish in Hope’s hands clatters to the ground and breaks into a dozen different pieces.

She feels her face blush scarlet with both embarrassment and surprise as she kneels to pick up the broken glass. She can still feel Kelley watching her as she scoops the pieces into her palm, and she begins to pray that she will just walk away. (Please walk away. Please leave me alone. Please, if you’re there, God…make her walk away. Use your force and make her walk away.)

The prayer seemingly goes unheard. Kelley speaks .2 seconds later. “Hope? Please answer me. Please talk.”

Hope begins to work quicker, sweeping the glass into her hands as fast as she can. She squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t hear Kelley’s voice again—it sounds like nails on a chalkboard after the quiet of the last few hours. In her hurry, she feels the glass slice across her palm. Hope is on her feet in seconds, jumping backwards and swearing.

“Shit!” she yells loudly, shaking her hand in the air as if to wave off the pain. She bites her lower lip and stares at the ceiling, clenching her jaw and gritting her teeth. “Shit.”

“You’re bleeding,” Kelley states.

In the moment, Hope forgets that she isn’t supposed to let Kelley back in. “Thank you, Captain Fucking Obvious.” She uses her wrist to knock on the faucet and rinse her hand off. The cool of the water stings the cut, and it takes all of her strength to not curse even louder. With a groan, she kicks at the kitchen cabinet and watches the water run red over her hand.

“Here.”

Kelley is there again, putting a comforting hand between Hope’s shoulder blades and gently leading her to the breakfast table to sit down. She gets Hope situated in a chair (Hope is too weak to object) and grabs a towel from the nearest drawer. With a soft, sympathetic inhale, Kelley wraps the towel around Hope’s hand to compress some of the bleeding. Hope is shaking, and she wishes she could say it’s from all the blood—but it’s from Kelley’s warm, gentle touch.

A few minutes pass. Kelley is alternating between sweeping up the rest of the glass, loading the dishwasher, and checking in Hope’s hand. She’s placed a glass of water and a cookie in front of Hope, instructing her to eat and drink so she doesn’t pass out (there is actually a sickening amount of blood, but neither of them bring it up) and has asked Ashlyn if any doctors live nearby because it looks like a pretty deep cut. To her credit, she’s been rather silent and serious, very down-to-business. Also to her credit, she hasn’t said a single thing about those three words since Hope dropped the plate—Hope is glad for that. It’s a rare, mature side of Kelley that is rarely seen, but the girl’s taking care of what needs to be done.

(It hurts—her hand, her heart, her head. Hope keeps silent.)

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

_And it’s hard, the days just seem so dark  
The moon, the stars, are nothing without you_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ashlyn and Ali’s doctor neighbor shows up with his surgical kit about twenty minutes later. He’s cute, Hope notices—tall, light-haired, with a chiseled jaw and serious eyes that are somehow calming. If Kelley wasn’t hovering three feet away from her (and if she wasn’t starting to feel a little woozy from the pain and blood loss), she might have flirted a little bit. Instead, with her teeth still clenched, she holds out her arm for Kelley to untie the kitchen towel from around her palm.

Doctor Friend winces empathetically and smiles at Hope with sympathy in his eyes. (They’re nice eyes, Hope observes, but she doesn’t give a damn. Is he going to make this go away or not?) “Well, Hope, looks like you did a pretty good number on that hand!” he tells her, chuckling as he brings out a suture kit and a numbing shot.

She shakes her head furiously. “No drugs,” she says through a tight jaw. “I’m drug testing when I get back to Seattle.” (Lies. She drug tested for the Reign before she left Seattle. She just can’t let Kelley see her weak any more than she already has.)

Christie is immediately there to protest. “You don’t want to do that, Hope. Explain the situation and they’ll let you test later. I promise you will regret it if you don’t take the numbing shot.”

“You’ll pass out from the pain,” Abby echoes. “I got two stitches next to my eye when I was in college without a numbing agent and I wish I had passed out sooner. The last thing I remember is screaming like I was being killed. Your body passes out when it reaches the top of the pain limit, and—“

“Let her make her own choice.”

The lone voice of reason is Ashlyn, standing back with her arms crossed over her chest. Abby, Christie, Kelley, and Boxxy all stare at her with accusation in their eyes. Hope has never loved her more than she does in this moment. She breathes a sigh of relief and tries to thank Ashlyn with her eyes.

“She’s a grown woman; she can make her own decisions. If she doesn’t want it numbed, she doesn’t want it numbed. Doesn’t matter what her reasons are.” (Ashlyn knows that Hope drug tested before she left Seattle; the last time she’d called Hope had answered her phone and put her on hold while she peed. She doesn’t know why Hope would turn down painkillers, but if her friend wants to go drug-free, that’s her choice.) “But it isn’t going to be pretty,” she warns Hope with knowing in her eyes.

Hope just nods. She has already accepted the fact that this is going to hurt. “I don’t want the shot,” she says quietly, her eyes downcast. She works the fingers on her injured hand and gingerly bends them in toward her palm. A goalkeeper’s most important asset is her hands, and she can’t help but think that if the glass cut deep enough to hit muscle or nerves, she could be totally screwed, and it would all be because of her ego and her selfish pride. “Just do it.”

Doctor Friend glances nervously to Ashlyn for approval. He looks like he really, really does not want to do this with Hope fully coherent. “We shouldn’t do it here then. She should be laying down, and someone’s going to need to restrain her.”

(Hope wants to object. She doesn’t need to be restrained; this can’t hurt that bad.)

But Ashlyn just nods to Boxxy. “Go wake Ali up. Christie, he’s going to need some towels and some peroxide.” At this, Hope winces, and Ashlyn just turns to face her boldly. “You want to do this without drugs, you’re going to have to clean it with peroxide. Sorry.” Then she addresses their teammates again. “Abby, get Beckett and bring him downstairs. He should stay asleep. You might want to put in some headphones or something because this will get ugly. And Kelley, get all the cold water bottles you can and some straws. Maybe a towel for her to bite on too. Jared, let’s get her upstairs.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_Your touch, your skin, where do I begin?_  
_No words can explain the way I’m missing you_  
_The night, this emptiness, this whole that I’m inside  
These tears, they tell their own story_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ali has already laid towels across their bed when Hope and Ashlyn walk in, accompanied by Christie and Boxxy. Kelley trails behind, looking more tense than Ali can ever remember her looking. “You’re really stupid for this, you know that, Hope?” Ali admonishes, helping them to get Hope onto the bed.

Hope feels like a little child. All the fuss and mess over her makes her feel small and vulnerable and weak, and she wishes they would have allowed her to just stay in the kitchen. If they had, this could already be over.

“I’ll sit on her legs,” Carli volunteers, suddenly awake and ready to be a part of the most recent drama. When Hope shoots her a look that says “don’t you dare,” Carli smiles devilishly and plops down on top of her shins. “So she doesn’t roundhouse kick anyone to the face,” she explains, her eyes not leaving Hope’s.

Kelley is waiting with the water and a bottle of vodka in her hands. Ali shoots her a look that asks what the hell she is doing; she stumbles over her words explaining, “For the pain. If she won’t take the shot maybe she’ll take the liquor.”

Hope shakes her head furiously. “No. Get that out of here. Get her out of here.”

“Okay, I get that you two aren’t all that close but Kelley is here to help, and—“ Ashlyn begins to argue.

Hope interrupts her. Kelley has already seen too much. She doesn’t need to see her hurt and drunk. “No, I mean get her out. She’s too good to see this. I don’t want her to see me this way. Please, Kell, for the love of God, get out. Please.”

Slowly, Kelley hands the water over to Christie and backs out of the room until she has reached the landing of the stairs and almost tumbles backward. Then she turns and takes the stairs two at a time. Hope is probably right. Kelley gets nauseous at things as easy as mosquito bites and stumped toenails; she probably couldn’t handle seeing Hope in that much pain and with that much blood.

Together, she and Abby sit silently on the couch in the living room. They don’t talk. They stare straight ahead and listen to Hope scream in pain while the other girls try to talk over her and encourage her—“just seven more, Hope, come on. Hang in there. You can cuss. Let it all out. You’re doing great. Big stick, Hope. Good. Six more. Don’t hold back. It’s okay.” They listen to Doctor Friend (Jared, Kelley reminds herself, who is pretty good looking) ask demandingly for what he needs—“Oh-seven vicryl. Needle holder. Scissors. Get her a drink. Doing great, Hope. Another stick.” They listen to Beckett’s little snores on Abby’s shoulder and the birds still singing after sunset.

“She’s brave,” Abby finally says during a silence, not taking her eyes off the wall ahead of her. “You have to give her that. I wouldn’t have done it. Call me a baby, but I wouldn’t have done it.”

Kelley nods solemnly. “She’s tough, that’s for sure.”

Then they fall back into the silence. Hope’s yells are subsiding a little—Kelley wonders if she got used to the pain or if she’s close to passing out—and she doesn’t sound so agonized when she does shout, instead sounding angry and determined. With the next whimper from upstairs, Kelley closes her eyes and says a little prayer that they’re almost through. Finally, she can’t take the silence anymore and blurts out what she had been holding in.

“It’s my fault.”

“Yeah, I know,” Abby responds, her eyes darting from the wall to Kelley. “You told us at dinner. I get it, Kell. No hard feelings. But it was kinda a dick move to pull.”

“No, I get that and I know. But Hope’s hand is my fault.”

Abby cracks up. “It’s your fault? Did you take the glass and stab it across her hand?”

“Abby, come on. Take me seriously for like thirty seconds. I surprised her and she dropped the plate. I shouldn’t have pushed her to talk. I told her that I can’t say I and love and you anymore and that I’m worried I won’t ever be able to love again and she dropped the plate.”

The teasing in Abby’s eyes fades. “Kelley, you showed up here pregnant and with a ring on your finger and a frat boy in your hip pocket. I don’t know that Hope is ready to reconcile. She may never be. I mean, we are all kind of used to you now, your randomness and your ability to bounce back from whatever life hands you, but this? This was a lot. And then you all but tell her that you can’t love anyone but her? No wonder she’s upstairs getting stitches.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_You told me not to cry when you were gone  
But the feeling’s overwhelming, it’s much too strong_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Kelley retreats back into the silence. She had been expecting too much—Abby was right. She had shown up at Ashlyn and Ali’s three days ago with her fiance who wasn't Hope and pregnant with not Hope’s baby and in love with not Hope, and now she’s not engaged and not in love with not Hope. To be fair, Kelley herself hadn’t expected anything to change, but seeing Hope again had brought up all the emotions she had been suppressed. She was in love with Hope—always had been, had never stopped being in love with Hope. She wanted her—always had wanted her, had never stopped wanting her even when she needed space. But if she can’t explain it to herself, she will never be able to explain it to Hope, or anyone else for that matter.

Left alone with her thoughts, Kelley doesn’t realize that the yelling has completely subsided and Ashlyn has escorted Jared out with a rather nice tip and friendly hug. (She explains to Abby, “When I got back from Germany that last time, after Ali and I had been fighting, I punched her picture on the wall and needed stitches. Jared did them here at the house instead of me having to go to the hospital and tell the coaching staff that I busted my hand open because my girlfriend broke up with me.”) She doesn’t notice Boxxy coming through the living room to drop off a load of dirty (bloody) towels or all the empty water bottles that Christie brings in to throw away. In fact, it takes Ashlyn standing in front of her for a solid two minutes with Beckett in her arms and finally saying, “Well okay, everyone else is going to bed if you every want to blink or move or something.”

She follows Ashlyn up the stairs and stops off at the door to the room she’s been sleeping in. Will this even work anymore? Abby, Christie, Carli, and Boxxy are staying their final night in D.C. at Ashlyn and Ali’s too, and that means that someone is short a bed. (Someone else will surely volunteer to share sleeping quarters—probably Carli and Hope or Abby and Christie—but Kelley secretly wishes that they would stick her in with Hope.) She swallows nervously.

Ashlyn, ever-so-observant, notices immediately Kelley’s hesitation at her door. “Forget it, O’Hara. You’re not going to bunk up with Hope tonight. It’s a bad idea.”

Kelley wishes the disappointment weren’t so evident on her face.

“If you want to see her, now’s the time. She’ll be out like a light soon,” Ashlyn adds reluctantly with a sigh, reading Kelley’s letdown like a book. She swings open the door to Beckett’s nursery and points to the guest room two doors down. “She’s in there with Carli.”

Hope is curled up in a ball on the king-sized bed, her face still twisted and her toes scrunched as she continues to writhe in pain. Kelley has seen her like this exactly two times: the first was when she was training to ride the bench play in the World Cup in 2011 and Hope had made the decision to have her shoulder almost completely redone only a few months before tournament play began. Most of the team thought it was dumb and reckless. Kelley remembers thinking it was the most brave and generous sacrifice anyone had ever made for the game. The second was when they had been practicing in Rio de Janeiro before the Olympics last summer and Carli had dropped into a slide to score right as Hope dove for the save. Carli’s boot had caught Hope right in the stomach, and Hope had the breath knocked out of her for the next twenty minutes.

Carli is doing little to no good in the comforting department. Instead, she’s doing pushups on the floor beside the bed and humming under her breath. Kelley could punch her in the face. Apparently she’s been working on these pushups for a while because Kelley can hear the occasional faint “…one hundred ninety one…one hundred ninety two…”

“Hey,” she offers feebly, sitting down on the edge of the bed. She folds her hands in her lap to keep from reaching out and landing a strong right hook in Carli’s eye.

Hope barely looks up. “Get out, Kell,” she mutters with no real conviction in her voice. There are tear stains down her cheeks, no matter how hard she tried to keep from crying. “You should get to bed.”

“No,” Kelley replies. She prays it doesn’t come out as a defiant, stubborn refusal (most of the time it does) but as a sweet denial that lets Hope know she isn’t going anywhere until she knows she’s okay.

“Kelley.”

Carli interrupts whatever Hope was about to argue by standing and throwing her pajamas over her shoulder. “Well if you’ve got this, I’m going to take a shower!” she tells Kelley with a rather chipper smile.

She’s gone before either of them can object. Not that Hope would have the energy to object even if Carli had allowed time for it. She can feel herself giving in to the exhaustion as she straightens her body over the bed, and she wants to close her eyes and have Kelley rub her back and press her feet into her calves for warmth and—

What is she even thinking? She’s obviously delusional. It’s the pain. It’s the want to be comforted. Surely she can’t really want that. She doesn’t. She wants to go home.

“I know this isn’t the best time to talk,” Kelley begins, scooting further onto the bed and moving Hope’s feet to the side to make room. “But I’m leaving in the morning and I just have to say it before I go back to Georgia.”

Hope squeezes her eyes shut hard and takes a deep breath. Then she looks right at Kelley. “Now?”

“Now,” Kelley nods, a seriousness in her eyes that Hope doesn’t ever remember seeing. It makes her wince—when did Kelley get so mature?

She plays off a groan and turns in the bed to make room for Kelley. “Well then by all means make yourself comfortable.”

Kelley does not need further invitation. She hops over Hope’s legs and buries her head in the pillow, the static sending the curly flyaways on her hairline sticking up in every direction. For a few seconds, she stays like that, facing Hope and staring into her eyes, one eye hidden by the pillow and the other curiously alert. It’s almost too familiar and comfortable for Hope.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_Can I lay by your side, next to you?_  
_And make sure you’re alright_  
_I’ll take care of you  
I don’t want to be here if I can’t be with you tonight_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

“I know that ‘I’m sorry’ will never cut it, Hope,” Kelley finally says, not breaking eye contact. “It just can’t. Because I can be as sorry as I’ve ever been and it won’t change anything. It won’t take back the things I said or what I did or the way I betrayed you. It won’t give us a redo. It won’t rewind time and give me a chance to do things differently. And it sure as hell won’t fix a broken heart. I guess I know that whatever I say won’t fix what happened. I could give you an apology written by God himself and it wouldn’t mean a thing because sometimes things can’t ever be fixed, even though I would really like for them to be. So I’m not going to tell you that I’m sorry, because sorry doesn’t take back words or actions or erase memories. Sorry is just a word.

“I know that I should have never hurt you, Hope, and it’s killed me every day that I was so horrible. I don’t even know how to tell you how much I’ve learned in the past year. I didn’t want to have to learn from heartbreak and whatever all this is, but I’m a different person now. Like you were after your suspension before the World Cup, I—“

Hope cuts her off. “That’s not the same thing, Kelley. I was broken and troubled and everyone knew it. I was dangerous and selfish and angry and depressed, and I needed help. I needed to lose something I loved so I knew that I couldn’t live without it.”

“Then it IS the same thing, Hope!” Kelley cries passionately. “I fixed you, Hope. I made you my mission and then I fell in love with you. I fixed you, and in the process I gave away the last part of myself that was good. I gave and gave and gave until I couldn’t give any more, and then I gave some more. I ran out of things I could give. I was empty, Hope, and I didn’t know how to be myself again. I wish I could explain it to you, but I don’t quite understand it myself. You were okay—you were better than okay, you were whole for the first time in your fucking life—and I was…I was fucking empty, Hope. I hit a wall and it was because of the World Cup and the Olympics and Ashlyn’s wreck and training and me and you and everything, I guess. It wasn’t an exact moment or thing that made me hit that wall. It was a progression, the progression Tobin warned me about.

“Tobin used to tell me that sometimes I can give too much of myself and not ask for anything in return, and that one day it was going to kill me. She’s right I guess. I mean, I’m alive and I’m so thankful for that, but I’m not living. I lost everything, Hope. I lost fucking everything good in my life because I didn’t know myself well enough to know that one person can only take so much before it’s too much. I didn’t know that I was going to get too exhausted to keep going. I lost soccer and I lost New Jersey and I lost you. I lost you, Hope. I thought I could do it on my own, and I was wrong. I do need you.”

Kelley pauses to take a deep breath. “It’s funny, I guess. I could learn to be happy without you. Give it a few years, I could find someone else who makes me happy because my God, Hope, it wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows with us. I could find someone who cooks dinner and has a few dogs and a cat, who treats me like a queen and makes me laugh. I could be happy without you. I could live without you. But the thing is, I don’t want to. I don’t want to live without you or have to be happy without you. If I tried to not love you anymore, the world would keep turning. I’d keep moving too. Sometimes I might not be able to breathe just right, and sometimes I would still be able to feel that hurt in my chest at night when I didn’t get into bed with you. But I’d keep moving.”

Hope isn’t quite sure where this is going, nor is she sure that she likes it.

“Eventually, I would go back to playing soccer, probably on your backline again. I would go back to all our friends, and it might hurt sometimes because my friends are your friends. I would probably sleep in socks so it would be warmer at night. Maybe I would work it out with Brandon. I would probably get married one day, have a few more kids. Take them to the beach and tell them about how the ocean may be big and vast and scary but it’s also beautiful and deep and infinite, a lot like the heart of someone their mama loved. I’d watch them grow up and be more proud of them than I ever was of myself. I would keep living, Hope. That’s how it goes. Life keeps going even after loss.

“But I’d never see the blue of the sky again without thinking about your eyes, and I’d never be able to listen to Katy Perry again without thinking of you. Champagne would always remind me of the World Cup and how we felt so invincible and so in love and so infinite. I would never win another medal without thinking about how many golds we won together and how I could have never done it without you. I couldn’t ever make someone’s coffee with two sugars and a cream without wondering if you’re okay. I would never be able to open up my heart to anyone the way I did to you, and I would never love anyone the same way again. One day I might be able to tell someone else those three words, ‘I love you,’ but it would always feel empty and dry in my mouth. See, no amount of coffee would ever make me not tired, no amount of love could ever make me feel whole, no amount of alcohol would ever make me forget…but I would have to keep living. Not because I wanted to, but because it’s what I would have to do to survive a single day without you.”

Hope can’t speak. She can’t even think straight with Kelley’s eyes in front of her, blurred with tears. She can’t think with Kelley’s cheeks flushed red from emotion and her lips swollen from biting them nervously. She can’t think straight because she has known for a long time that Kelley is smart—brilliant, even—but she had never expected something so honest and mature and wise from the younger woman.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

_I’m reaching out to you_  
_Can you hear my call? (Who’s to say you won’t hear me?)_  
_This hurt that I’ve been through  
I’m missing you, missing you like crazy_

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Kelley takes a deep breath. She hadn’t meant to be so long-winded, so brutally honest, but she had started talking and hadn’t been able to stop. Since she was little, Kelley had talked a lot. Her kindergarten teacher had written across her report card, “Kelley is very bright and precocious! Reading skills far above her peers (3rd grade level) and exceptionally gifted with numbers! Superior motor skills and plays well with others! Has trouble sitting still and has a word quota she must meet!” She hadn’t realized how much she had to say until it all hit her as she stared at Hope and began to talk. She couldn’t stop when she got started, not until she was sure that her point had gotten across the way she wanted it to.

“What does this even mean, Kelley?”

Hope is looking back at her, eyes mirroring the pain and confusion that Kelley is feeling. For a moment, Kelley is taken aback. She doesn’t know how to answer that question. She thought she had said it all.

“It means that I love you, Hope,” she says with a certain amount of shock in her voice suggesting that she thought it was written plainly across her forehead. “It means that I know that I may have broken things irreparably, but I still love you, and I need you. It means that I know that I may be out of second chances but I’d love another. It means that if you will let me, I will spend the rest of my life trying to convince you of how incredibly sorry I am and how I will never hurt you ever ever again.”

A small, sly grin creeps onto Hope’s face. She still looks tired, but some of that old light has returned to her eyes. “I knew what it meant, Kelley. I just wanted to hear you say it.”


	9. don't go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope’s point of view starts the day she leaves Seattle, Kelley’s when she lands back home; Ali and Ashlyn’s the day after everyone leaves D.C.
> 
> I think I might have more than three more chapters in me :) You guys are the best! I am so encouraged by all the positivity. It's been a long week, and I'm thankful to have an escape from what the world brings me.

The plane drops unsettlingly as Hope makes her way back to her seat.

She grasps the back of the seat she is closest to and lets out a quiet hiss. She waits it out there for a few more seconds, letting the pilots find some smoother air before she forces herself to let go of the seatback and stand up straight. The turbulence tosses the 737 like it’s a paper doll, and Hope takes three long strides to reach her seat before it can get any worse.

It’s not as hard as it once was for her to fly alone. In fact, if she’s not mistaken, it’s becoming less scary with each trip. The takeoff, the landing, the turbulence—none are as forgiving as she’d like them to be, but when they reach the cruising altitude, when they hit 37,000 feet…she can relax. There’s something oddly comforting about being miles and miles above the world. (Miles and miles from any problem, any heartache, anything that could possibly cause her to go back to even a second of old Hope.) Now she relaxes as she looks out the dirty airplane window at the blue of the sky, at the wispy clouds, at the quilt patterns of the Earth below. She does some of her best thinking at 37,000 above. And even Seattle is sunny from this far up.

The flight today isn’t full, and it gives Hope a chance to curl up cross-legged in her seat, her feet pressed tightly where her calves reach the back of her knees. The in-flight movie is playing through her headphones (she’s listening in Spanish so she doesn’t get too distracted) and the cool air blowing out of the vent overhead. It plays with the wisps of hair that have come loose from her ponytail. She opens her book.

The Chronicles of Narnia.

Kelley had stopped her on the way out the door and handed her the copy, breathless and her cheeks flushed red from taking the stairs two at a time. (Kelley has one speed—fast.) She had yelled Hope’s name right as Hope was opening the door to take her cab to the airport and tagged her lightly on the shoulder. Hope shivered at the feeling of Kelley’s warm fingertips on her bare shoulder. Then she had tucked the book in close to her chest and explained that it was one of her favorites, and that maybe Hope could read it on the plane. Hope had stared at the cover and been able to tell that it was well-loved. The paperback spine was soft and ragged at the edges; some of the pages looked as though they had been coffee-stained or been dropped into the bathtub. A single piece of masking tape had bound the middle back together where it had fallen apart. Upon thumbing through the chapters, Hope could see lines highlighted yellow and pink; words circled with definitions or an analysis written in the margins beside. Her heart swelled. This was definitely Kelley’s favorite book, one she had read hundreds of times. She had smiled and hoped that it said all that her mouth wouldn’t allow.

So far, Hope is almost one hundred pages in and has not been able to read a single line without trying to see the words the way Kelley sees them. What does Kelley think C.S. Lewis meant when he wrote, “I hope no one who reads this book has been quite as miserable as Susan and Lucy were that night; but if you have been - if you’ve been up all bight and cried till you have no more tears left in you - you will know that there comes in the end a sort of quietness. You feel as if nothing is ever going to happen again.” What does she mean when she writes on page thirty-two about the philosophy of being human? How does Kelley think so deeply and still not overcomplicate things? She sees Kelley in every line, every word, every definition and thought scribbled on the page.

With a sigh, Hope closes the book and smooths the cover with her hand. She’s feeling too much, and it’s all because of that stupid book. She flips through the pages quickly and a small piece of paper slips out and glides to Hope’s lap. For a moment, Hope chuckles to herself. Kelley left a receipt or a post-it note in the book; probably something she once used as a bookmark. But upon further investigation, she has to bring her knees to her chest to fight off the goosebumps up and down her body. Kelley had left a note for her, hidden in the pages of a book that she had no doubt found refuge and comfort and home in for years now.

_For Hope—_  
Remember the signs and believe the signs. Nothing else matters.  
-Kell

It is so like Kelley to leave a cryptic note—one that Hope will probably never be able to figure out the meaning to; a quote from the book itself that has a separate meaning for Kelley than it will for Hope. A hunger to discover the meaning fills Hope. She wants to dissect it, to analyze it until she’s sure what it means, to read until her eyes are crossed and she is positive of what Kelley was trying to say. For as simple and exuberant and cheerful as Kelley is, there is meaning in absolutely everything she does. Every move is calculated even if she doesn’t realize it—it’s instinct. Kelley sees more than Hope ever has and ever will.

She’s tempted to buy the 16 gigabytes of wifi the flight is offering so she can iMessage Kelley right then and there, ask her what she meant, tell her to please call when she lands in Georgia so they can talk. (She already misses Kelley again, but it’s different this time. She really, truly misses her. She doesn’t miss what they had or the Kelley she used to know. She misses Kelley as a whole. And it doesn’t hurt like it did before. It hurts deeper, more in her heart than in her body. She misses her. She wants to see her again.) Instead, she checks the time. D.C. to Seattle gives her a travel time of 6 hours, and she’s only an hour in. She sighs. It’s going to be a long day.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Kelley’s mom is waiting at the baggage claim when she lands.

She’s so glad to see her that she starts crying.

Standing in front of Baggage Claim E, Karen O’Hara holds her daughter and lets her cry into her chest. Kelley wishes she could say it’s because she’s so damn tired she can barely function; that it’s because things ended with Brandon; because her team is full of the most wonderful people she has ever had to privilege of meeting…but it’s because of Hope. It’s because Hope was there, and then she was gone. It’s because Hope isn’t hers. It’s because Hope is Hope’s, and she doesn’t need anyone, and she is finally okay. She is tired, and she is sad that she and Brandon had to end things, and she is full of emotion because her team is amazing…but it’s Hope. After all this time, it’s still Hope.

On the drive from the airport to Kelley’s childhood home, where her parents still live, she tries to sleep. The evening is warm, and her mom is driving with the windows down and John Denver playing softly out of the speakers of her dad’s old Ford pickup truck. Outside, the lightning bugs are dancing through the Georgia pines. It smells like fresh rain and peaches—Kelley’s favorite smells have always been rain, the ocean, pine, peach, and her dad’s chewing tobacco. Ordinarily, these things would have set up the perfect scenario for her to doze off on the drive. The truck gracelessly takes on the bumpy two-lane country road, and Kelley is overwhelmed with the love and nostalgia she has for her home. Still, her heart aches for what she’s left behind.

Her brother is waiting on the front porch for them, his cap on backwards and a wad of Levi Garrett’s in his mouth. He hugs them both warmly and takes Kelley’s bags inside while she lingers in the driveway, her mind obviously hundreds of miles away.

“Kell?” he asks, touching her wrist lightly. His eyes are full of concern. “You comin’?”

With a nod, Kelley abruptly breaks into a jog and takes the front steps in one giant step. Her dad is in his recliner in the living room—the worn, rugged leather chair he’s had since Kelley and her siblings were young. He’s smoking his pipe and reading the sports column of the Sunday paper, his glasses low on the bridge of his nose. The familiarity makes Kelley feel five years old. She wants to curl up in his lap and lay her head on his chest and have him tell stories of when he was little. He looks up with a smile when he notices her standing nearby.

“There’s my Georgia peach.”

Kelley’s dad has always been the best, most loving person in the world. There’s not a time she can remember where he would raise his voice or say an unkind word. He was a firm disciplinarian, yet she can never recall him being angry or red-faced when they were naughty or dug up plants in the garden or missed curfew or broke a window playing baseball in the backyard. Dan O’Hara was highly respected in Peachtree City. He was calm, yet his eyes demanded the attention and respect of those around him. He got things done. He handled everything with dignity and responsibility. He was a deacon of their church, a storeowner, and the high school principal. She had never been afraid to tell him that she was seeing someone, boy or girl, and she had only feared him once—when she had missed curfew in high school and tried to sneak back in before sunrise.

“Hi, Daddy.”

Suddenly she is in the eleventh grade again, and it’s five-fifteen in the morning, and she’s been out all night. Her cheeks blush bright red and her eyes pool with guilt. There is no evidence of anger or disappointment in his eyes, and—like that September morning when she was seventeen—that’s what scares her. She finds herself climbing over the armrest of the recliner and curling up beside him. Her legs are too long now, tangled up with his brown leather loafers, and her belly makes it difficult to have enough space to not fall off the edge, but she doesn’t care at all. She wants to be held.

She snuggles against her dad’s chest and cries softly while he strokes her hair.

The night makes it even harder, and she can’t stop wondering if she’ll ever be in Hope’s arms again.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ali sleeps until noon the next day.

She doesn’t mean to, but by the time she opens her eyes the sun is flooding in through the white curtains and Ashlyn’s side of the bed is cold. She can smell something cooking downstairs and hear pots and pans clanging around.

Her eyes are still tired, and her body is too, but she ignores the ache in her shoulders and neck when she stands up and stretches. It’s already noon, and she should have been up hours ago doing laundry and watching Beckett so Ashlyn could go to practice with the Spirit. Her head pounds a little as she squints against the brightness of the afternoon sun.

Ashlyn is at the stove downstairs, steam rising in front of her as she works. Her hair is thrown over one shoulder, and she’s dressed in a tee shirt and shorts. Her feet are bare and she’s obviously not planning on going anywhere. On the floor, Beckett is crawling around and banging a wooden spoon on various pans as he yells along loudly. His hair sticks up in every direction, and Ali is taken by how much he looks like his mama in this moment.

“Well good morning, sleepyhead. Or should I say, good afternoon?” Ashlyn says with an easy smile, kissing Ali’s cheek. “Wash up. It’ll be ready in a minute.”

She turns back to her lunch preparations, and Ali wrinkles her nose. “What are we having?”

“Spinach and chicken quesadillas with homemade salsa. Polly brought over some fresh vegetables from her garden so I used some of those,” Ashlyn replies proudly, taking the pan off the burner.

There is barely-audible squeak of “oh” from Ali, and Ashlyn turns around quickly.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Ali says, her nose still wrinkled as she lifts Beckett off the floor and pushes a pot out of her way with her toe.

“No, tell me what you said.”

Ali starts to mumble incoherently, trying to convince Ashlyn that she’s backtracking when she really isn’t at all. “I just, nothing, it’s not important, I mean.”

“Alexandra Krieger-Harris.”

They both pause, and Ashlyn sinks all her weight onto one hip, crossing her arms over her chest bossily. Ali shrugs in defeat and wipes the slobber off Beckett’s face.

“You don’t want my food, do you.”

“No, no…I didn’t say that. It’s fine. It’ll be fine; I’ll have cereal or something.”

“ALEX!” Ashlyn pops a dish towel at Ali’s thigh, eliciting a high-pitched shriek from her wife.

“I said it’s fine!” Ali laughs as she dances away from Ashlyn’s reach. “Swear to God, Ash! I’ll have cereal! Truce! TRUCE! I surrender!”

Ashlyn finally catches Ali by the waist and pulls her in tightly. “What was that?”

“I’ll have cereal?”

“Mm-mm.” She shakes her head. Her lips are tauntingly close to Ali’s; her eyes are dark. “After that.”

“Oh. I surrender?”

Ashlyn nods. “Better get a bowl out, champ. We’re having quesadillas.”

By this time, having caught her breath, Ali is getting out the Cheerios and milk. “What about practice? Didn’t you have conditioning or something this morning? There’s a game tonight.”

“I told Mark that I needed the morning; that you weren’t feeling well and we didn’t have a sitter. Said I’d be at the Plex by 4:30, in plenty of time for gameday speeches, warmups, and meet-and-greet. I also told him that you’ll be out the rest of the season and maybe some of next season too.” Ashlyn serves a quesadilla and homemade salsa onto her plate and cuts up tiny bites for Beckett, who is now in his high chair. “You can tell the team tonight.”

Ali nods as she swallows her Cheerios. “I’ll tell them; don’t worry. You just focus on making all the saves against FCKC tonight.”

“We’ll probably lose,” Ashlyn says in a voice rather bright for the statement she’s just made. Ali looks shocked. “Well, you won’t be on the backline or putting offensive pressure on theirs, and that means that we have limited scoring opportunities AND I won’t have much protection from A-Rod and Cheney. I mean it’s okay. I can only do my part, right?”

It’s taken Ashlyn a while to be able to separate work life from personal life. When the NWSL first started, she had no clue how to walk the line between friends and enemies. She didn’t know how to balance playing against her national teammates in the league while playing with them a few weeks later for camps and tournaments. Now, Ali knows, she doesn’t take it personally. A loss is a loss, even if it is Alex or Abby or Sydney or Pinoe or A-Rod who scores on her. She doesn’t carry them around with her anymore.

“Right,” Ali assures her, putting one hand on Ash’s knee and squeezing it tightly. “But remember that you have to do your part even if you think you’re going to lose. Losing is okay; losing before you begin is not.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Hope lands in Seattle around midnight.

It’s been a long day; she was supposed to be home hours ago.

Her phone is at 3% battery life when she powers it back on while waiting for the flight crew to get them to the gate and deplane. She sighs and begins to type out a text to Jerramy, asking him to come pick her up in a few minutes. Halfway through clicking out “hey,” she erases it and cancels the message. The old anger she used to feel is rising in her stomach again, and she has to push it back down before she cries. It’s been a long time, and she still finds herself missing the comfort and ease of going home to someone. When she thinks of how it was in the beginning—fun and exciting and new and like nothing she had ever experienced before—she can still miss it. She can miss being someone’s wife, someone’s family.

She begins to wonder who she even has left in Seattle. It has been a long time since Hope has gone home to someone. She doesn’t even have anyone to call a family anymore. Her mother has been refusing her phone calls. Her half sister and nephew tried to pin some twisted form of domestic abuse on her, and she hasn’t seen them since. Her brother moved off a few years back, claiming that Seattle was “toxic” and that he had to get out. As far as she is concerned, her family died off with her father. She has no one. When she and Jerramy were married—no matter which side of him she got—she had someone she knew would always be there. It didn’t matter if it was Angry Jerramy or Mean Jerramy or Drunk Jerramy or Fun Jerramy or Happy Jerramy. He was always reliable—he was always one of the above. They spent holidays with his family. She never had to worry about where she’d spend Christmas (would she have to spend two days with her mom, stepdad, and half siblings?) or if there would be a Thanksgiving lunch.

That’s what she misses most—the fact that when she was married, she had a family. It wasn’t ideal. When Jerramy wasn’t Fun Jerramy or Happy Jerramy, he always took things out on Hope, but she had always been able to push him back down with the coolness of her eyes when he got a little too close to her face. He hadn’t been capable of love, Hope had realized too late. But she had someone to come home to, and she had a family to share holidays and anniversaries and wins and losses with. Even when she had Kelley, they had never been able to share those things. Kelley had her own happy family, one that wasn’t exactly accepting of Hope Solo, who had her name in papers for not being able to control her mouth or temper and who was brazen and cocky and a little bit too dangerous for their sweet Kelley. Kelley had never been able to stay long in Seattle; she had her own life in New Jersey, and Hope knew that she couldn’t quit her life to be a part of Hope’s.

Her phone dies before she can send a text, and she decides to take a cab. She should have enough cash to get her to her house, and it’s not worth it to try and wake Pinoe from her peaceful slumber just for a ride.

This time, her boarding pass was A4. It had been a long time since Hope was one of the first people on a plane, and she has never been so thankful for a random business select upgrade in her life. They had also offered her a free in-flight beverage, and the glass of cabernet they brought her had allowed her to sleep from Chicago all the way to Seattle. She’s one of the first off the plane—a far cry from her C boarding position when she’d flown to D.C.—and she makes sure she still thanks the flight crew.

The baggage claim is slow, but Hope’s bag is one of the first off. She grabs it quickly, declining the help of an elderly man nearby but being sure she is respectful and kind about it, and makes her way to the ground transportation terminal. It takes another ten minutes to find a cab willing to make the drive from the airport to her home on the Sound, and by this time it’s well after 1 in the morning.

The thought of calling Kelley crosses Hope’s mind as she crawls into bed, but it’s nothing more than a thought. She’s too tired to even get her phone charger out of her suitcase.

_I’ll call her in the morning._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Hope doesn’t call.

That is the only thing on Kelley’s mind. She can’t sleep, not even after she takes melatonin and rubs lavender essential oil on her temples and counts to 798. It’s too bright in her childhood room. As promised, Karen has left her room exactly the way Kelley had it in junior high school. There’s a wrought-iron daybed that Kelley now finds inherently uncomfortable, blush-pink sheets that smell too much like Downy detergent and the shampoo she used in seventh grade, a fluffy white comforter that has a black nail polish stain on it, and a worn quilt that her grandmother gave her in third grade. True to her word, Karen has also allowed the faded posters of Mia Hamm and Abby Wambach to stay tacked to the wall, which is painted a pale pink. Kelley finds the poster of Abby to be creepily ironic, and eventually gets up to take it down and hide beneath the bed so she can stop feeling Abby’s smiling eyes frozen on her all night.

Karen made sure to unplug the Mickey Mouse nightlight on her way out. She had tucked Kelley in tightly and brought her a glass of water, reminding her that they will go to the farmer’s market in the morning. Kelley already wants to leave. It doesn’t matter that Karen has plans for them to move back in and decorate a nursery and name the baby herself and they’ll live happily ever after and Kelley will be done with soccer.

She wants to get out while she still can, but Hope doesn’t call, and she’s afraid that’s her last ticket out of Georgia.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ali can’t shake the feeling that something is not right.

Not that something just isn’t right, either. It’s a feeling deep in her gut that something is horribly, desperately wrong. All day it has lingered in the pit of her stomach, hidden by just enough nausea that it only creeps in when she stares at Ashlyn for too long.

She begs her to not go the game. She tries everything in her power. She cries, propositions her, fakes morning sickness, and begs some more.

It doesn’t work. At 3:30, with a soft kiss on the forehead and her bag slung over her shoulder, Ashlyn heads out the door and promises Ali that everything will be okay and she is “just being paranoid.” Ali is still crying.

The afternoon goes on. Ali throws up a few times, puts Beckett down for a nap, folds laundry, and waits for the feeling to go away. She tries to remember the last time she had a feeling like this, and she’s certain that the day she almost lost Ashlyn didn’t feel like this. In fact, it had been the biggest shock of her life. Everything had felt so normal, and in a matter of seconds it had all changed. She wonders if she should feel relieved or panicked that she doesn’t feel normal, and then she goes straight back to panicking.

She watches the Weather Channel and makes note of the strong possibility of thunderstorms around kickoff—maybe there will be a power outage or lightning? She stares at Beckett while he sleeps and wonders if he’ll suffocate in his sleep or choke on a corn dog or fall down the stairs. She looks at herself in the mirror—will she miscarry their baby or get into a car wreck or have a heart attack or get cancer? She calls Kyle, who’s now back in LA, and talks to him for a total of five seconds before crying again because what if he gets killed in a random drive-by or relapses/overdoses or the roof of his hair salon collapses? And then she wonders if her team is going to fall apart or if someone is going to die or if someone is getting a divorce or if someone is in grave danger.

Six o’clock rolls around, and Ali and Beckett arrive at the Plex against Ali’s own judgment. They’re both dressed in Washington Spirit fan gear, and Ali hopes she doesn’t look too much like she’s been crying. Upon heading toward the stadium, the first thing she notices is that it seems much too chaotic. Her heart begins to race. Nobody is inside the stadium yet—hundreds of people are packed outside the entrance, worry plastered onto their faces. Security is nearby pulling people out of line one by one and leading them toward an FBI-like van. Panic rises in Ali’s chest. Before she can ask anyone what’s going on, someone behind her yells that she needs to “make a path!”

Seconds before she would have been trampled by a team of paramedics and a gurney, she steps out of the way and backs straight into Dave, HAO’s husband.

Thank God. Someone she knows.

And shit. He looks horrified.

“What the hell’s going on?!” she hisses, now fully aware of the sirens screaming from not too far away. It’s not just one siren either. It sounds like freaking New York City after 9/11. Instinctively, she pulls Beckett closer to her chest.

Dave’s face falls at her question. “No one told you?” (She shakes her head no. Told her what?) “There was a guy with a gun.”


	10. heal this hurt.

Hope is in her kitchen listening to the Weather Channel and slicing tomatoes from her vegetable garden when she gets the news.

One second the local weatherman is talking about a summer thunderstorm cell building near Seattle; the next a news anchor from across the country has cut him off.

“We interrupt your regularly scheduled program to bring you breaking news from just outside our nation’s capitol.”

Hope is immediately put out. There was probably a strike, protest, or a bill that someone disagreed with passing through the Senate.

“A shooting has been confirmed at Marilyn Hendricks Field, where the Washington Spirit were preparing to kick off versus FC Kansas City. At this time, there are no additional reports and no confirmation of casualties or gunmen. We will bring you more information as available. With live, breaking news out of Washington, D.C., this is coverage you can count on.”

The Cutco knife in Hope’s hand clatters to the floor. Her heart rate has begun to pick up. What the hell was going on? She had just been in D.C. and everything had been fine. They’d all laughed, had fun, and she and Kelley may have been going somewhere. The sky had been blue, the air had been clean, and the flowers had been blooming. Now, what the hell was going on?

Her first thought is not about Ashlyn or Ali or any of her teammates—her first thought is why.

_Why?_

Why would someone target a Spirit game when nobody really cared what happened? Sure, a faithful crowd of several thousand came to support at every home game, and sure, winning the World Cup had grown soccer on a national level, but this wasn’t done in Kansas City or Houston or even Seattle or New Jersey. No, this was done in Washington, D.C., just a short drive from the Pentagon and the White House and the U.S. Capitol Building and countless memorials, monuments, and government officials—so why the Spirit game? Why choose to shoot up a soccer game when there were hundreds of places not far away that would make much more sense? Why a soccer game?

Her hands are trembling violently, tugging firmly on the stitches across her palm, but she manages to pick up her phone and go to her contacts. Ali’s name is one of the first in her phone, thankfully, and she desperately hits the “call” button before collapsing onto her couch.

“Hey, it’s Ali. Sorry I can’t get to my phone right now! Leave your name and number and I’ll try to get back to you! Tha—“

Before Ali’s voice can finish her voicemail, Hope hurls her phone across the living room.

_Dammit, Ali. All you had to do was pick up your phone so I know. Just let me know you’re okay; that you and Ashlyn and Beck are okay. Maybe HAO and Cheney and A-Rod and Becky too._

She’s not thinking clearly as she pounds out a tweet.

_@hopesolo: IF YOU ARE MY TEAMMATE AND YOU ARE AT THE PLEX PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU ARE OKAY. @WashingtonSpirit @FCKansasCity #whatishappening_

For another few minutes, she alternates between calling Ali, Ashlyn, Crystal, HAO, Becky, Cheney, and A-Rod until finally she gets a dial-up sound that lets her know that the phone lines into D.C. are jammed. She doesn’t know what else to do.

She calls Kelley.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“ALEX!”

Ali whirls around in circles trying to locate who shouted her name from across the parking lot, where hundreds of Spirit and FCKC fans are being held until they get to the bottom of the shooting. She doesn’t quite know what’s going on. In a span of five minutes, she has gathered that someone had an automatic rifle (she doesn’t know much about guns, but that doesn’t sound too great) and they open fired onto the field and into the stadium (the teams had been warming up and lots of fans were already finding their seats in the stadium) and they have to wait here until it is clear that none of them are either the gunman or helping the gunman (there are at least 700 people in the parking lot, not counting all the police officers, paramedics, SWAT, or other emergency personnel. Ali is starting to think this is going to take all night.) No one has come to find her or Dave to update them on how their spouses are or if they’re even alive. Ali has never been a part of a disaster like this, but it’s mass chaos and she doesn’t know who’s in charge and she doesn’t know much and she wants to go home and she wants this to be a bit more organized—what if she is being corralled with the gunman, and what about all the people who are still in the stadium?

She presses Beckett’s cheek closer to her shoulder to shield his ears from the noise. It’s far too loud—she’s a grown woman, and she’s overwhelmed by the sounds coming at her from a thousand different directions, so her son must be in overdrive. A sharp crack, one that sounds a lot like a gunshot, rings out from somewhere Ali can’t quite pinpoint. There’s more screaming from all around her, and she squeezes her eyes shut, praying this is all over soon.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s a soccer game. It’s supposed to be fun with hot dogs and Slurpees and popcorn and cheering. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen at soccer games. At least, not in Ali’s world.

She bumps into a man in army fatigues and nearly loses her balance. He stables her and looks her directly in the eyes. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

“No.” The tears that Ali had earlier refused to let fall spill over onto her cheeks. “I don’t know what’s happening and my wife is in there and I just heard another gunshot and I want to go home.” She points one trembling finger toward the stadium gates, where dozens of SWAT agents and police officers crowd, ready to breach the entrance. “I want someone to tell me what the hell’s going on.”

He nods understandingly and calls over another man in a suit. “Agent, this woman needs some answers. Get her a place to sit and tell her what she wants to hear.”

The second man, who reminds Ali a little too much of Hotch from Criminal Minds, starts to lead her and Beckett toward a tent that has been set up as headquarters. Before they get too far, she glances over her shoulder and sees Dave staring at the ground, the toe of his sneaker digging into a crack in the pavement. He looks devastated.

“Wait. His wife is in there too. He should get to hear this.”

Dave and Ali are seated in folding metal chairs in the tent. Styrofoam cups of water are placed before them, as well as a box of Kleenex for Ali. Across the table from them sits a woman in a suit, her gun holstered on her hip and her eyes very kind but serious. If Ali weren’t so worried and upset, she might have thought about how this wasn’t too different from all the cop shows she watches with Ashlyn—they’re her guilty pleasure, the way HGTV is Ali’s. Another woman, an officer in plainclothes, offers to hold Beckett while they get this “sorted out.” (Sorted out is a funny way to put it, Ali thinks. Just tell me if my wife is okay and everything will have been sorted out.)

The first woman is just about to start talking when there is a commotion outside the tent, where someone is trying to force their way in past the law enforcement. Ali panics for a few seconds. What if it’s the gunman? Couldn’t they just kill him or her?

“Ma’am. MA’AM. WE NEED TO CHECK—“

“Look, I don’t have a gun and I am not hurt. Just let me in. I need to—let me in!”

And at that moment, Ashlyn forces her way into the tent, past the FBI agents and officers. She stumbles on her feet a little, shaking them off her elbows.

“She says she knows you,” the man in the suit says somewhat helplessly.

Ali leaps to her feet and throws herself into Ashlyn’s arms. She’s still looking fully ready for the game, boots and gloves on tightly. Her kit has bloodstains on it, but she appears to be fine, and the way she catches Ali so effortlessly emphasizes her claim that she isn’t hurt. She lets Ali wrap her legs around her waist and cry for a few minutes until she sees Dave.

“Hey, baby, why don’t you get Beckett and sit down? We can’t leave just yet,” she says in a soft voice, setting Ali gently on her feet. “Stop stressing. I’m fine. This isn’t my blood.”

Then she turns to Dave, a certain glint in her eye betraying her helplessness. “Dave…I don’t know where the guy came from. We were just warming up and then…then there were shots everywhere, and it was so damn loud. It was so loud I couldn’t think. I thought he would never run out of ammo. I don’t think he did, but you should know that Heather is a hero.” Ashlyn pauses to smile at him through her emotion. “She tackled him. He was running on the field and she tackled him.” Her voice cracks. “She’s hurt, though. She was hit. They took her in an ambulance.”

Ali feels sick for a moment with realization.

If it’s not Ashlyn’s blood on the front of her kit…it’s HAO’s.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Kelley is sitting on the dock behind her house with a glass of peach tea, dipping her bare toes into the water, when her phone rings beside her.

She thinks about not answering it—caller ID pops up, and a picture of Hope with a gold medal around her neck, smiling like she’s just caught a star and her arms thrown around Kelley casually, appears on the screen. One part of her heart is jumping in excitement and happiness that Hope is calling. The other part—the logical part—knows that Hope isn’t ready to let anyone in. Not yet, anyway.

The happy side of her heart wins.

“Hey Hope!!!” she all but yells into her phone. (Kelley cringes and tells herself to not be such an enthusiastic little dipshit.)

“Kell?!”

“Yeah, hey. I’m here. What’s up?”

Concern rides on every note of Hope’s voice. It’s giving Kelley anxiety. “Are you near a TV?”

Kelley jumps up from the dock, grabs her glass, and runs up the boardwalk to the house. She takes the front steps in one giant leap and swings open the screen door, then grabs the remote from Jerry’s hand. “I am now. Why?”

Hope is talking at 100 miles per hour and Kelley can’t keep up, which is saying something considering that Kelley is a notoriously fast person—fast talker, fast runner, fast thinker, fast joker. She can’t get a word in. “Kell, holy shit. There was a shooting at the Plex. FCKC and Spirit were about to kick off and there was a shooting. I can’t get through to anyone but they could all be dead for all I know and I just—“

Abruptly, Hope cuts off. Kelley has to know what she was going to say. “You just what?”

“I just…I don’t know.” She’s slowed down a little bit now, though Kelley can still hear her rapid breaths. “I needed to hear your voice even though I know you’re safe,” she admits, a slight shyness and uncertainty tainting her words. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Kelley promises. “It makes perfect sense. Ashlyn, Ali, HAO, Becky, Cheney, A-Rod…they could all be hurt. From what I’m seeing, they don’t know much. It makes sense that you’d want to hear from me, knowing I’m safe. When we don’t know what is certain, it makes us long for what is sure.”

“I wanted to hear your voice,” Hope says again, quieter this time. “I wanted to hear your voice. God. My friends could be dead and you’re still the first person I want to hear from. I mean I tried all of them but the whole time I wanted to hear from you. God. I’m such a masochist, Kelley. I mean, God. You killed me. When you left, I left too. I checked out on myself. I mean, all I did was play soccer and fish. I went fishing, Kelley. God. I went fishing every damn day and I hated how quiet it was without you there. You broke me, Kelley. You left me there for dead, but whose voice do I want to hear when there’s trouble? Yours. God. It’s still you, isn’t it. All this time and all these people and it’s still fucking you.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Hope is beating herself up inside.

She didn’t mean to let Kelley back in.

In fact, that had been the furthest thing from her plan for Beckett’s first birthday party. (The story in Hope’s mind was extravagant. Her plan had been to show up at Ashlyn and Ali’s, look way happier than she actually felt so Kelley can see that she’s fine without her, give Beckett a bomb-ass present to one-up Kelley, and leave on a cloud of rainbows and sparkles and unicorns. Hope was the protagonist in this fairytale. It was Hope Saves the Day written by Hope, directed by Hope, casting by Hope, starring Hope. Instead she had shown up and Kelley had seen straight through her misery and Beckett’s present had been smushed on the flight to D.C. so Kelley’s looked better. Then Kelley had been super nice and Hope’s life was ruined THE END.)

But it had been surprisingly easy to let Kelley back into her life. She had wanted to be able to move on, to avoid Kelley the whole trip and then go back to Seattle and figure out a way to be happy alone forever, the way she had figured out how to be happy alone for now. She’d wanted to be right so badly—Hope hates being wrong. She could have sworn she would be right about this one, about not letting Kelley back into her life. The girl was candy-coated misery; the devil in disguise. She didn’t need anyone in her life who didn’t plan on staying around forever, and Kelley had packed up and left when things got hard for her. And now, Hope is finding herself letting that poison back into her life.

She had called Kelley without thinking twice. For the sixth time in a row, she had gotten the busy line when she dialed Cheney’s number, and for the sixth time in a row she was almost reduced to hysterics—and instead of breaking down, she had called Kelley. Kelley was home in Georgia, probably husking corn or picking peaches or whatever people do in Georgia, and had answered her phone like it was any other day. Hope heard the slow, lazy splash of the water at Kelley’s feet and had to gulp. She missed the slow laziness of Kelley—the way she’d sleep until noon, the way she’d randomly drop to her back in the grass and stare at the clouds, the way she could sit with her feet in the pool for hours and do nothing but bask in the sunlight and flip over every now and then so she didn’t get sunburned.

Kelley spoke, and Hope could count all the freckles on her face by memory. She could see her sitting on the dock behind her house, flat on her back with her feet kicking little droplets of water, her sunglasses on and her hair piled into a bun. She could see her under the hot blue sky, a glass of sweet tea sweating nearby and a fresh peach in her hand, one bite taken out of it before she remembered that she didn’t like the texture of peaches. She could see the smile playing on her lips when she answered the phone, excited but trying not to be because she knew Hope didn’t want her to be excited when she called. She could see her bounding up the old dock, boards creaking and bouncing, in need of a new coat of red paint, and the way she took the steps in front of her house—fast, always fast.

There’s silence after Hope’s confession. Neither of them quite know what to say. (Kelley knows what she wants to say—I love you, I want to hear your voice too, I love you, I want to see you, I love you, I miss you, and hey did I say I love you?—but she knows she can’t say it. Hope knows what she wants to say—I don’t mean that, it’s a lie, I don’t want to hear your voice, I don’t want to see you, it’s not still you—but that would be a lie and she’s sick of not telling the truth.) So it’s quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds the hum of the TV in the background of both lines, Hope’s dog barking from the backyard, and Kelley’s brother whistling a Coldplay song.

“Hope?” Kelley finally says, her voice sounding confident and unwavering.

Hope doesn’t speak for another few seconds, knowing her voice will betray her lack of confidence and control. “Can I come see you?” she finally asks, her whisper shaking. “I can’t be alone right now.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ali and Ashlyn ride in the back seat of a police cruiser to the hospital.

Ashlyn looks like she’s living her dream of being an FBI agent; Ali looks like she’s been arrested.

The police officer in the front seat occasionally casts a look or two into his rearview mirror, but otherwise he’s speeding along the freeway with his lights and sirens on, darting between cars without checking his blind spot, and passing people on the shoulder. A few times, Ashlyn is tempted to wave at people they drive by but has to wipe the smile off her face and remind herself that this is not a joke. She was at her soccer game and there was a crazy man with a gun who shot her friend. (She thinks he only shot HAO. Hopefully the others are okay. She hasn’t seen them since she helped carry HAO up the stadium seats to the ambulance. Come to think of it, she didn’t see any of them before either. She gulps.)

Ali is terrified. Ashlyn’s heart begins to ache for her. Ali’s a strong woman, no doubt, but someone as beautiful and kind and wonderful and giving as Ali deserves a life full of the good things, of pizza and margaritas and ice cream and chocolate and babies and wine and beaches and puppies and shopping. Instead, Ali has gotten adversity. She’s been given things like divorce and death and broken legs and torn ACLs and car wrecks and now this. It makes Ashlyn angry. She tenses up in her seat beside Ali and feels her jaw tighten.

“Ashlyn.”

Surprisingly, Ali’s voice is not scared or shaky or needy. It’s motherly, almost warning, and it makes Ashlyn’s brow furrow in confusion.

“What?” she answers, crossing her arms over her chest in a subconscious pout.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t sit here and soak in all the bad things and feel sorry for yourself or anyone else. Pity only makes things worse.” Ali bumps her hip against Ashlyn’s. “And don’t act like that isn’t what you’re doing, because it is. I know a lot of not-so-great things have happened in your life, but you don’t get to throw yourself a pity party because you are okay and I am okay and Beck is okay and everything is going to be okay.”

Ashlyn is slightly amused. “So I don’t get to throw you a pity party either?”

Ali is appalled by the very idea. “Me? Why would I need a pity party?”

“Because you’re the best and you deserve the best, but so far you’ve been handed a lot of crap and it kind of makes me sad that I can’t give you all that good stuff you deserve. Like instead of taco stands and the Caribbean and gelato and expensive purses and puppies, I’ve given you almost heart attacks and car wrecks and soccer game shootings. It’s not fair.”

“Well, Ashlyn,” Ali says, wagging her finger, “the ‘fair’ only comes once a year and that’s in September!”

Ashlyn groans. “You sound like my grandmother. Good Lord.”

“For real, baby.” Ali is serious now, the humor gone from her eyes. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve got all I need in life. I don’t care about all that other stuff. If I’ve got you, I’ve got far more than I deserve.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Kelley is pushing her boundaries with Hope.

She knows she is and she knows she shouldn’t, but her heart is racing and she feels like she is breaking all sorts of rules which is oddly exhilarating.

When she was a sophomore in high school, Kelley had been voted “most boring.” At the time, it had been slightly true—she played soccer, she did her schoolwork, and she went home. Every day. She followed the rules—she was at church every Sunday, she helped her dad in his store, she didn’t date, she’d never been kissed, the only alcohol she’d tasted was a sip of wine when her parents weren’t looking. Still, the “most boring” label had found Kelley offended. She came back her junior year determined to prove everyone wrong. After the first Friday night football game of that season, she had gone to a party deep in the Georgia pines—the kind of party where there’s a bonfire and everyone sits in the back of an old beat-up truck drinking moonshine out of a keg—and had exactly one beer. It had been a rush that she’d never felt, breaking the rules. (Her junior year superlative had been “most likely to rebel against last year’s superlative.”)

Years later, Kelley still gets that rush from pushing things further than they should be pushed. It had earned her several yellow cards throughout the years, but she loved it. She loved the acceleration of her heartbeat, the rise in her chest, the smile it put on her face. And pushing Hope? It was a wonder she still had a pulse.

Still, when Hope asks if she can come visit Kelley, she doesn’t know what to say. “In…I—In…uh…In Georgia?” she finally stutters.

_God, Kelley. Good job. You were doing so well._

“Yes, in Georgia,” Hope returns with a dry laugh. “Or have you moved to Timbuktu?”

_Smartass._

“No, I’m still in Georgia. I just don’t know if that’s the greatest idea in the world. Maybe you should call me back when you’re a little less emotional.”

“I’m not a child, Kelley. I make my own decisions. And I have decided to ask if I can come visit you in Georgia. I can handle my own emotions.” (No, you can’t, Hope tells herself. You clearly can’t. You were supposed to make her work for it, if you were going to let her back in at all.)

“I mean, sure. That’s a pretty long flight, but if you want to come see me there’s nothing stopping you.” Kelley can’t collect her thoughts.

_Play it cool, O’Hara. Play it cool._

“I mean, yes. I would love to see you,” she corrects herself.

_Damn it, O’Hara, that was NOT playing it cool. Get your shit together._

Hope is laughing now. “When should I come? I play tomorrow afternoon; I could fly down after that.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Sounds good,” Kelley responds absentmindedly. (Sure, that sounds fantastic. Bring that giant tee shirt you always sleep in. Do you want to sleep on my trundle bed? Also don’t forget your swimsuit.) “Just let me know and I’ll come pick you up from the airport.”

Hope sounds light and happy. “I’ll text you my plans. See ya later, Kell.”

“See ya, Hope.”

Kelley has to stop the subconscious “I love you” that almost slips out of her mouth.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Hope wants to throw herself into the Puget Sound when she hangs up with Kelley.

“Can I come visit you?” She mocks herself in a high-pitched voice and beats her fists on the countertop. She didn’t want to make it this easy on Kelley, and so far she’d made it as easy as beating Alex Morgan in chess. No, this was supposed to be as hard as dethroning Ali as the shoe queen or Tobin as the chess queen or Syd as the selfie queen. Instead it was easy, like getting-Kling-drunk easy.

To her credit, Kelley really does want to make sure she never hurts Hope again. She’d made that pretty clear when they were up all of their last night in D.C. talking. Where Hope didn’t know what to say or wanted to go to sleep so her pain would go away, Kelley filled the space with talking and apologizing and being too understanding of Hope’s situation. She had promised so many things, and Hope had believed them all. (Also to her credit, Hope still believes them now, when she isn’t delusional from the agonizing pain of getting stitches without a numbing agent.) The girl’s good—Hope can never deny that. She’s a master manipulator without even trying. All she has to do is laugh that little-girl laugh and bat those eyelashes and smile that Kelley smile and you’re under her spell. (Or is that just Hope who’s under her spell? Everyone else seems to do a pretty okay job of saying no to her. Except Ali, who can’t say no to anyone including her one-year-old.)

She is a scared of how easily she’s letting Kelley become a part of her life again. For God’s sake, she’d gone almost seven months without talking to the girl a single time: no Instagram, no Twitter, no texts, no calls—she had done one hell of a job making a statement. The first time she saw her again, she had sobered up rather quickly and had really made a hand in avoiding her the rest of the night. Other than a few awkward run-ins in the kitchen or when Ashlyn forced them to sit near each other at dinner, she and Kelley had only exchanged a few words in two days in D.C.—and even those were courtesies like “excuse me” or “my bad” or “pass the pepper please.” Then Kelley had caught her in a moment of weakness and she had cut her hand and then made a poor choice and been even more vulnerable, and then they had talked the whole night.

And it’s been too easy. It’s been too easy to let Kelley seep back into her life, even in tiny things that she normally wouldn’t notice. The cat is on the couch again and she doesn’t bother to move him. There’s Kraft macaroni in the pantry even though Hope has no real intentions of eating it. She hums when she’s in her garden or even on the fishing boat. She sleeps in past 7:00. She cuts her sandwiches diagonally. She pets every dog she sees, drinks Shiner beer, plays piano when she can’t sleep. It’s all the little bits of Kelley creeping in without warning that worry Hope—scare her. This has been much too easy. She thought it would hurt more if she ever decided to let Kelley back in, but this wasn’t even a decision. It was subconscious. It was normal. It was instinct. Everything about this newfound friendship (or whatever it is) with Kelley O’Hara is scaring Hope.

It hurts.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ashlyn thought that Ali would be so exhausted and overwhelmed that she would crash in the waiting room, but it’s nearing midnight and Ali is still wide awake and chatting the night away.

The whole thing has been too much for Ash to handle—she could have passed out hours ago if she hadn’t been forcing herself to stay awake and support everyone around her. She thought it would all be over after the FBI packed up and went back to Quantico…after the police finalized her statement…after SWAT loaded into their armored trucks. She thought that it could all just end when the gunman was locked up and HAO was out of surgery. Now, though…she’s starting to think this will never be over. People might forever ask her if she was there “that night” or if she was scared or call her a hero. They might always refer to it as the “Spirit Shooting” and it might be said in the same breath as “Columbine” or “Sandy Hook.” They might bring in grief counselors and experts to try and make this something people will forget…and it will never happen.

She can’t comprehend this hatred and randomness and cruelty.

If there’s one thing Ashlyn hates more than liars, it’s violence. She dealt with enough of it growing up to despise it—to despise the way anger can spiral out of control so quickly, to despise how easy it is to lose touch, despise the way that violence is often so random and nondiscriminatory. And this is something that will never make sense. A man had so much hate in his heart that he brought a gun to a soccer game and emptied several rounds into a crowd. Some might try to brush the hatred off as mental illness, but she’s seen the look in his eyes. That wasn’t psychosis or paranoia or panic brewing deep in his irises—it was hate. He had, as far as she knew, made a very conscious decision to bring that gun to the game and shoot people. That’s something she is not capable of forgiving.

Thirteen people are dead because of that decision. Many more are injured, including HAO, and thousands are forever changed. She’s one of them. For the rest of her life, she will be more cautious on the streets, more hyperaware of her surroundings, more wary of fans. She’ll spend the rest of her days trying to make things better for those around her—she’ll tell them more how much they mean to her. She will try to find words to express her sorrow to the families of those thirteen fans who were killed while waiting for her autograph, and they will never come. It will be something that keeps her up at night—thirteen people who were at a soccer game waiting for autographs from national team players, their lives cut short by someone who was full of senseless cruelty.

By now, things seem to have settled down a bit. The waiting room is crowded with teammates and fans alike, teams suddenly forgotten as they unite for one of their own. It doesn’t matter what color kit or the logo on the front of the jersey—they are all their for HAO, their friend…their hero…their teammate…their family. Ali and Ashlyn had been the first to arrive at the hospital, right after Dave. Ashlyn had immediately collapsed into the nearest plastic waiting room chair, mentally and physically drained. Ali had immediately started pacing. She hasn’t stopped since.

“Can you sit down for like three seconds?!” Cheney finally snaps.

Ali stares. Cheney has been very quiet this whole time, slouched in a chair next to Ashlyn with her head resting in the palm of her hand. She’s never snapped at Ali before, and it takes her by surprise. “Yeah. I’m sorry.” She looks around the waiting room, searching for a place to sit, and comes up empty-handed. Every seat is taken, and most people are standing.

“Here,” Ashlyn finally says, standing and offering her seat to Ali. “You should sit. Take care of yourself.” She presses a kiss to Ali’s temple as they switch places.

One of their Spirit teammates, Estelle Johnson, glances up. “Oh, yeah. That reminds me—why weren’t you playing, Kriegs?”

Ali smiles shyly. “Oh. I’m pregnant.”

She knows they wish there could be more of a celebration, but they’re all too tired and too worried and still too shell-shocked to do more than offer their sincere congratulations and smiles. Honestly, she’s glad they all take it in stride. At this point, nothing is too surprising. After what happened a matter of hours ago, any good news is going to seem underwhelming.

Ali’s phone has been dead for hours now. She knows her family and friends have been calling and texting like crazy, but she doubts that anything would go through even if she did have battery life. Still, she wishes she could text them or even send out a tweet just so she could ease their worry. Ali is all too familiar with the waiting game, wanting to know if someone she loves is okay or not. It’s not an enjoyable place to be.

HAO has been in emergency surgery for hours now. No one wants to say it, but it’s scary. They just want to know that she’s okay.

The doctor wakes Dave at 2 in the morning and lets him know that HAO made it through surgery. They all cry, and he thanks them for staying. It’s then that everyone starts to clear out, give him space with promises to visit and check in later.

Things are going to be okay, but Ashlyn is not sure if she will be.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Do you know why I love you so much?”

Ali rolls over sleepily to face Ashlyn, nearly in a deep slumber. “Probably. But it never hurts to tell me. I like being told how awesome I am.”

“You’re incredible, for starters.” Ashlyn’s sleepy voice is growing softer. “And you care so much about helping people feel better. You’re making me feel less heavy just by being here.”

“Mmm.” Ali scoots closer to Ash and blinks her eyes. Ash swoons at the half-lidded darkness of her irises. “Is it a little easier now? I mean, is some of that heaviness gone? A little lighter now? I’ll stay up with you all night if that’s what it takes for you to know that you’re not alone.”

“You can’t take the pain away, Alex,” Ashlyn says softly. It’s not an accusation, it’s a reminder. Ali gives too much of her heart trying to save people.

“I know, but I want to help you heal this hurt.”


	11. better.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope is in Georgia. Hold on tight.

Seattle Reign comes out with the win over the Chicago Red Stars, and Hope boards a plane to Georgia shortly thereafter.

Hope has never been a fan of redeye flights—she already hates flying enough, why add exhaustion and disorientation to the mix? Not that it matters at this point. She had a few great saves from strikes by Christen Press and Julie Johnston, missed a crossbar shot from Boxxy, and had been tackled by Whitney, but a win’s a win, and she’s going to be knocked out the whole flight anyway.

Pinoe takes her to the airport. Their ride is comfortably quiet. Both are exhausted and neither wants to address the elephant in the room—Hope is going to see Kelley. Still, Pinoe gives her an obnoxious hug when she stops at the terminal.

“Got your boarding pass?” she asks rather awkwardly when Hope’s bag is unloaded. She shoves her hands deep into her pockets and rocks back and forth on her heels.

“Yeah, right here.”

For a few more seconds, they stare at each other before Pinoe crushes her in a hug. “Call when you land. And be careful out there, Hope. It’s a big world, and not everyone is as nice as we are.” There are a few tears in her eyes, ones that they’ll both pretend they aren’t there. Pinoe has always just wanted the best for her teammates, especially Hope, and Kelley had always seemed like such a good idea until they learned the truth.

“I’ll be fine, Meg. I swear.”

Pinoe nods firmly and claps her on the back. “Well then you’ve got a flight to make and I’ve got a bed and my lady waiting for me.” She watches Hope stride into the airport and prays that Kelley is as different as Hope is, because if she’s the same then Hope is going to have her heart broken again.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Hope makes it through security in what she thinks is record time. Granted, she’s normally flying with the team, and though that means they all get pre-check it takes a significant amount of time because someone normally forgets to take off their watch (Ashlyn) or has a full bottle of water they try to chug before they reach the metal detector (A-Rod) or refuses to take off her belt (Jill) or didn’t put their liquids in a bag (Syd) or is selected for a random security search (that’s been Tobin the last three times they’ve travelled as a team.) Also, traveling with that much luggage and that many people and that many kids also means that someone needs to pee (Ali) or someone forgot their passport (Carli) or someone can’t find their boarding pass (normally Hope, actually.)

Her flight is set to board at 11:15 and takeoff at 11:45. She has the number for a shuttle service in Peachtree City because part of her doubts that Kelley can make it to the airport in the middle of the night/morning to pick her up. Kelley loves her sleep, and once she’s out she’s out for a solid few hours. It’s 11 when she makes it to her gate, and against her better judgment she goes to the Starbucks kiosk and gets an Americano. The airport is always quiet and all but deserted by 9:30 or 10, which Hope finds oddly comforting. She doesn’t have to worry about photographers or nosy fans or prodding journalists. In fact, flights at this time are normally deserted. One time, after the London Olympics, she was on a flight from New York to Seattle at midnight and was consequently the only passenger. The pilot had made a giant joke about the safety briefings (“Who the fuck cares about bracing positions when you’re about to crash, am I right folks?”) and she’d been served free drinks all night. She had played Progressive Rummy with the flight attendants and they’d all taken selfies and had pushup competitions. It had been arguably the greatest flight of her life.

The plane boards right on time, and Hope takes note of her flight crew—two peppy blonde flight attendants, a middle-aged male copilot, and a small woman who looks like she means business with her captain’s wings on as she stands outside the cockpit.

“Seattle and American royalty flying with us tonight,” she remarks amusedly when Hope is the last of 23 passengers to board. “How are you tonight, Hope?”

“I’m good, Amy,” Hope responds warmly, giving the pilot a cozy hug. Amy has been her pilot hundreds of flights before, when Hope would visit Kelley in Georgia on breaks, and they became rather good friends. Amy knows that Hope hates flights and always tries to make them as painless as possible for her “famous friend.”

“Visiting our good friend?” Amy asks, raising her eyebrows knowingly. “Things better there, I guess?”

Hope nods. “We’ll see soon how much ‘better’ things are. How’s the flight path looking?”

“Clear skies from here to Denver, change planes and fly on from there. Mostly cloudy in Atlanta, maybe some bumps between there and Denver, but a pretty nice flight time. You should arrive right around 6 in the morning.” Amy motions for the crew to seal the jetway and close the plane doors. “Have a drink on me tonight, Hope. It’s good to have you flying with us again.” With a reassuring wink, she points to Hope’s seat in first class. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

As promised, the takeoff is very smooth and rather painless. The cabin lights are soon dimmed, and Hope is left bathed in the glow of the overhead reading light. Around her, most of the other 22 passengers are asleep. One man in a tailored suit is poring over a manilla folder on his setback tray table, and there’s a woman with a young baby who is gently rocking the infant in her arms. Otherwise, the plane is completely silent—just the way Hope likes it. Nobody is forced to share a row with anyone else, and she can attempt to stretch out over the two seats and sleep. As usual, the flight attendants have brought her a scratchy airline pillow and blanket, and she tries to sleep, telling herself that the sooner she sleeps, the sooner she will be in Atlanta.

The stress of the past two days is taking its toll on Hope. She is so exhausted she can barely think. HAO is going to be okay, the rest of her teammates are unharmed, and talks of a memorial for the thirteen fans who lost their lives are already in place. Still, as drained as she is, sleep doesn’t come. Her eyelids aren’t as heavy as they should be, and her bones don’t ache the way they normally do at this point of exhaustion. The flight is smooth and silent, but her mind won’t allow her to sleep. Where she normally would have been frustrated and angry, she instead pulls her book out of her tote bag and opens the the bookmark from Kelley.

_For Hope—_  
Remember the signs and believe the signs. Nothing else matters.  
-Kell

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

_And as he spoke, he no longer looked to them like a lion…And for us this is the end…But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in Narnia had only been the cover and title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story which no one on Earth has read: which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before._

Hope turns the page as the plane begins its steady descent into Atlanta. All she finds are blank, creased pages filled with notes from Kelley—things like “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe - page 102, line 8: remember to ask Becky what she thinks!” and “Prince Caspian - who does Caspian represent? Get Abby’s opinion.” and “The Last Battle - refer to Revelations. Discuss with Cheney and Tobs!” For a second, the only thought running through Hope’s mind is “what the actual FUCK, C.S. Lewis?!?! It just ends?!?!?!” She wants more—just another page, another chapter, or another book. (It doesn’t have to be long. Just enough to satisfy the craving Hope has for more stories about Narnia.)

She cringes a little bit when she realizes her own thought. She’s Hope Solo, and she’s too old for fairytales. She shouldn’t be hungering for more rubbish about happy endings and Aslan. She should read something appropriate, like “As I Lay Dying” or “War and Peace.” Instead, she’s finished seven books in about three days, made notes in the margins next to Kelley’s, highlighted in green and purple, and is beyond excited to discuss theology and representation and symbolism and metaphors and fables with Kelley. She’s added sticky notes to pages that can’t cram another note in otherwise and written pages of discussion in her Moleskine over Lucy and Susan and Peter and Edmund. She’s becoming Kelley. God.

With a sigh, Hope glances at the bookmark again.

_Remember the signs and believe the signs. Nothing else matters._

The pieces start to fit together like a puzzle, and Hope feels butterflies flitter in her stomach.

_Remember the signs and believe the signs. Nothing else matters._

It goes much deeper than Hope originally thought. It’s more than just a story about God and evil and resurrection. It’s more, even, than a world going so wrong that it needs an unsuspecting savior. It’s a story of love, of family, of believing. There’s a considerable difference between reading fairytales as a child and reading them as an adult—as a grown woman who has seen all the evil, horror, cruelty, heartache, loss, and unpredictability life can bring. She sees it now. She sees the signs. She believes them. And nothing else matters.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Kelley stands in front of Baggage Terminal B9 in Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.

The sun is rising, casting a painting of brilliant pinks and golds into the skies above. Clouds are covering the majority of the sky—Kelley is expecting an early-afternoon thunderstorm followed by a clear, humid evening. Her parents are in Savannah for the day—they’d left before even Kelley had awoken to drive the three and a half hours. Her mom is being honored at a philanthropy conference for her generous donations of both time and money to the Homes and Gardens Association of Georgia, which benefits the Boys and Girls Clubs of the state. (Kelley will never admit to endorsing such a materialistic and stereotypical organization, but she’s really proud of her mom. Karen is such a good little housewife.) Her sister will be at work soon—she’s the assistant district attorney for Peachtree City, another accomplishment Kelley is proud of—and her brother was up before the sun to go work in the fields.

For half an hour now, Kelley has been staring at the screen in front of her that lists all the arriving and departing flights. The only flight she cares about (Southwest Flight 13, Seattle/Tacoma to Atlanta, one stop, change planes in Denver) has been flickering “late” for fifteen minutes, and it’s making her antsy. Hope was supposed to land twenty minutes ago. She bounces on her toes and bites her lip as she thinks of every possible scenario for when Hope lands. (She could go with the casual, “Hey, let’s grab your bags and get Waffle House on our way back to the house.” Or there’s always the over-excited, dumb little wave thing Kelley always ends up doing when she’s happy. She could also go with a simple side-hug and try not to talk too much. She’ll probably end up going with the second option. It’s subconscious and annoying, but she knows it’s what she’ll do anyway.)

When she redirects her attention to the screen, the status of Hope’s flight has changed to “landed.” Kelley nearly squeals out of pure excitement. (She’s nervous. Is that weird? She’s nervous to see Hope.) She pictures the jetway sealing and Hope deplaning, then walking the terminal to the baggage claim. Would she be happy to see her too? In an effort to picture how this interaction will go down, Kelley squeezes her eyes shut and scrunches her face in concentration. This is the first time since before she ruined it all that Hope has come to see her. Sure, they saw each other occasionally for team things—Hope did her very best to never even make eye contact with Kelley, and Kelley was an expert at avoiding Hope—and they’d seen each other in D.C. But this was different. Hope had wanted to see her. She had asked to come visit. And Kelley had put her heart on the line for Hope, told her the bare truth and nothing but the truth. This could be the start of making things better.

“Don’t think too hard. You shouldn’t overexert what little brain function you have this early in the morning.”

Kelley’s eyes shoot open, a red flush creeping up her neck and making her face grow hot in embarrassment. She looks around hurriedly for the accuser and only finds a small group of people, all in clothes wrinkled from the plane and eyes that are squinted shut from either sleep or the harsh overhead lights of the baggage claim. Before she can even react, a pair of soft, strong hands are covering her own eyes. A high-pitched squeal escapes her throat.

“Hope!!!” she yelps as she pries Hope’s fingers loose from her face.

Behind her stands Hope, a tote bag slung over her shoulder and her sweatpants hanging low on her hips. A broad grin stretches wide across her face and reaches her eyes. The tattered, limited-edition copy of The Chronicles of Narnia is sticking out the top of her bag, and there are a few wispy pieces of dark hair falling down around her eyes. She looks tired, but she looks happy. “Didn’t think I’d see you this early. I was all prepared to call a cab and be in your house before you woke up.”

The smile across Kelley’s face grows to match Hope’s, and she impulsively throws her arms around Hope’s waist. They both stumble back a few feet at the sudden impact, and Hope has to steady their balance as she laughs.

“I take it you’re glad to see me.”

It’s a statement, not a question, and Kelley wants to feign offense but it’s true. “Yeah, I’m happy to see you! And yes, I’m up and ready to go eat! You want Waffle House or Kelley’s House?”

Hope laughs—a real, genuine laugh that rings like bells and makes Kelley’s stomach flip—and throws her head back, her eyes shut and the corners of her mouth turned up. She shrugs the tote bag higher onto her shoulder and smiles down at Kelley. “I’d like to get my bags and then I’d like to experience the beauty of Waffle House followed by a nap at Kelley’s House.”

Kelley takes Hope’s carry on bag while Hope grabs her U.S. Soccer duffle bag off the carousel. When Hope returns to where Kelley waits, she nods her head toward the sliding doors a few yards away. “Alright, Squirrel. Show me some Georgia magic and Southern hospitality.”

On their way out the doors, Kelley almost reaches for Hope’s hand but instead settles for a casual brush that seems almost accidental. (They both know it’s not.) The electricity that shoots up Kelley’s arm makes her inhale sharply. Every single time she’s ever touched Hope, no matter where, she can feel her skin tingle and erupt in goosebumps. There’s a small smile on Hope’s lips as she takes Kelley’s hand firmly and laces their fingers together. It feels right.

Hope catches Amy’s eyes as she glances over her shoulder leaving the airport. Amy stands with her precise black rolling suitcase and captain’s jacket folded crisply over her arm. She casts a wink Hope’s way and mouths, “Go you!”

The bounce in Hope’s step returns as she matches pace with Kelley under the Georgia sunrise.

It feels like she’s home.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“How’s it taste?” Kelley asks with a sarcastic grin, watching Hope down her third glass of orange juice.

Leaning back in the booth, Hope lets out a delighted moan. “Like heaven,” she admits, crossing her legs at the ankle and purposefully sliding one of her feet between Kelley’s. “I can’t believe I’ve gone 35 years without this.”

“Thirty-six,” Kelley corrects matter-of-factly. “You’re not 35 any more.” She pauses and thinks for half a second before adding, “Grandma.”

Hope shoots up from her slouch like she has been stung by a bee. “Watch it there, O’Hara. Let this serve as a warning that I have plenty of blackmail on you.” She crosses her arms defiantly and cocks her head at Kelley for another three or four seconds before smirking, “Toddler.”

“Seasoned veteran,” Kelley shoots back, swallowing a bite of chicken and waffles.

“Chocolate milk lover.”

“Cradle robber.”

Hope laughs again, and Kelley feels her heart flutter. “Okay, you win there. Seriously, Kell. I want to eat nothing but blueberry pancakes and bacon for the rest of my life.”

Suddenly, Kelley’s face turns serious. “You probably don’t, actually,” she says, her voice somber. “You don’t even want to know how much sugar and fat and calories you just inhaled like it was one of those nasty spinach smoothies you like. As it is, you’ll probably need to run like ten miles to burn all that off. That was a pretty big plate.”

The fork in Hope’s hand clatters to the plate and she dabs at her mouth with the paper napkin her silverware came in. “Well, what Dawn doesn’t know won’t kill her, I suppose.”

“I guess you’re right. But it might kill you if you eat like that again.”

The crowd at the Waffle House that Kelley drove them to even though it seemed out of their way is small. There are a few old men in button-downs and starched jeans belted at their belly buttons gathered a few booths over, sharing a pot of black coffee and holding menus about two inches from their thick reading glasses. At a table on the other side of the restaurant is a woman dressed far too well to be from Peachtree City, wearing a white tailored suit and nude Louboutin heels. To Hope, she looks like a reporter, but Kelley insists that no reporter has ever been in Peachtree City for anything but the Peach Festival which happened in July. The woman continues to glance up from her own breakfast—a single piece of French toast with syrup on the side and a cup of fruit, and a glass of iced coffee—to catch a glimpse of Hope and Kelley’s table. There is a MacBook in front of her, the screen angled away to where nobody can see what she’s doing, but she always types something when she looks back from the duo laughing happily across the room. (That is almost always the sign of a reporter, but Kelley continues to swear up and down that it’s not a gossip columnist—it’s “probs just a law student” or someone else who is either nosy or annoyed by how loud they’re being.)

Kelley stands casually to pay the bill, but Hope shakes her head. “I already took care of it, Kell.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Kelley says in surprise, already zipping her wallet shut again. “I’m your hostess.”

“Okay, but I invited myself. I can cover the tab for my unhealthy breakfast and your two pancakes.”

Together, they leave Waffle House and head out to Kelley’s dad’s old, rusted, slightly-beat-up Land Rover. Kelley always drove the Land Rover when she was home in Georgia. It’s one of her favorite things to do—ride with the top off and the windows down and the air conditioner off and just feel the breeze in her hair. Hope’s bags are precariously tossed into the backseat along with a few jackets and a workout bag that has been abandoned there for several days, as far as Hope can tell. (It’s bright yellow so it’s almost certainly Erin’s, not Kelley’s, but Hope has always known that the sisters are more alike than they’ll ever realize.) The sun has risen now, but it only peeks out from behind the clouds every now and then. Overhead hangs a gloomy cover of dark rain clouds, but Kelley promises it won’t rain for another few hours—noon is her prediction. Otherwise, the air is hot and sticky, a stillness dripping from every inch of the sky. It feels like the dog days of summer should.

Kelley drives fast on the way to her house, taking backroads shaded by the overgrowing of oak trees that make each turn look like something out of a storybook. Hope isn’t surprised—Kelley still only has one speed, which is fast. She turns up the Beach Boys oldies and sings along loudly and off-key, making Hope laugh harder than she can remember laughing. Birds chirp overhead, and eventually Kelley starts to race a horse that gallops alongside them from a pasture. They’re both breathless from fits of laughter when they finally round the last turn to the O’Hara family home.

The front porch is still sagging tiredly in the middle, worn from decades of jump-roping and pounding up the steps for dinner after playing in the sun all day. Two old rocking chairs sit silently on either side of the front door. Dan and Karen sit there every night of summer, spring, and into autumn, sipping sweet tea and watching the sun set over the grove of trees surrounding their home. It’s the same place that Dan’s parents once sat, watching their son and his sisters catch lightning bugs well after dark. Hope knows how much history is on this piece of land, generations and generations of O’Haras growing up here. Karen wants so desperately for Kelley’s baby to experience the same summers on the lake and peaches straight from the front yard that Kelley enjoyed herself. It wouldn’t be a bad life, but Hope also knows that it’s not for Kelley. Behind the house, Hope spots the lake, gray and glassy and still just like the morning. A sprawling dock painted red at one time looms over the edge, looking as though it’s had years of secrets stored in its wooden planks. Hope wonders how many times Kelley has come out to the dock just to think or cry or release anger. Her heart sighs heavily when the small voice behind her says grandly, “So this is it.”

Inside, Hope is still surprised by how much Kelley’s home can feel like a home should. There are family pictures on the walls everywhere—framed photographs of Dan and Karen’s parents & siblings, Kelley and Jerry and Erin as children, Kelley’s cousins, Jerry on a tractor, Erin graduating law school, Kelley winning countless awards for soccer. A recliner that has seen a few too many years of love, a dining room table that a loving family sits around every meal to enjoy together, a vase of wildflowers from Karen’s flowerbeds. A winding staircase leads up to Kelley’s bedroom, and Kelley takes the stairs two at a time—fast as usual.

Kelley tosses Hope’s bag carelessly onto the director’s chair by her window and jumps onto her bed with a heaving sigh. “Wow I’m beat,” she says dramatically.

“Okay, Beat. Where should I sleep?” Hope remarks, smirking down at Kelley.

“In here, dummy,” replies Kelley like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ll pull out the trundle bed and you can sleep there.”

Hope scoots Kelley out of the way and lays down beside her. “Sleep in here? Won’t that bother your parents or your sister or brother?”

“Mom and Dad are in Savannah.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m a grown woman. If it bothers Jerry and Erin then fuck them. I’m not going to make you sleep on the couch.”

An amused almost-smile appears on Hope’s face. “Fuck them, huh?”

“Well you know what I mean.” Kelley springs to her feet and stands firmly in front of Hope, putting her hands on her hips in a superhero pose. “Let’s take a walk. I’m bored.”

“Smart people don’t get bored.” Hope stands anyway, slipping her sweatpants off and pulling on a pair of Nike shorts.

Kelley flounces out the door, letting the screen catch Hope in the face without looking back.

“Always thinking of others,” Hope says sarcastically, pushing the door open again and following a little slower.

“Well keep up and that won’t happen.” Kelley is bouncing along at her normal speed, faster than everyone else and still not making her break a sweat or lose her breath. If Hope moved that fast all the time, she’d almost certainly have to carry an inhaler with her at all times. “The dogs are swimming in the lake,” she calls over her shoulder as she all but skips up the old boardwalk to the dock. “Too hot for them otherwise.”

Hope drags her hands over her forehead and nods. “Too hot for most anyone, I guess,” she replies, drying her sweaty palms across her shorts. (Of course, it’s probably not too hot for Kelley. She’s weird like Ashlyn and loves the hot weather. It’s her dream.)

They come to the end of the dock together. Kelley immediately picks up a fishing rod and a bait box and plops down the edge, dangling her feet over the edge. Hope watches intently as Kelley baits the hook with a still-squirming minnow and smiles amusedly as she casts the line. On her first visit to Seattle to see Hope, Kelley hadn’t known how to fish. She didn’t want to touch a living fish, she didn’t want to sit still, and she absolutely could not be quiet for long enough to catch anything. Now, though, she looks like a seasoned pro. She looks almost as comfortable as Hope does on the lake with a fishing pole.

“I’ve been fishing a lot lately.” It’s like Kelley reads Hope’s mind. “Not much else to do all day besides swim, fish, and cook.”

Hope is still positioned on the end of the dock, her bare feet curled over the old wood that is splintering off in several places. She pokes her big toe at a loose board that has been rotted until the nail was stripped away. “I could help your dad and brother fix this dock. If they’re interested, I mean.”

“Dad has been wanting to build a whole new dock for a while. He just hasn’t had time, with the farms and the stores and me and stuff. I’m sure he’d love the help.”

A comfortable silence falls over them. The bobble on top of the water occasionally tugs and creates ripples over the glassy surface of the water, but Hope taught Kelley well—she doesn’t reel in the line and instead focuses expertly, waiting until she’s certain by the tug on the pole that something has taken the bait on her hook. As for Hope, she remains standing, staring off into the distance at the vastness of the lake and thinking about where her life goes from here.

One second, Hope is on the end of the dock, deep in thought, and the next she’s feeling two hands firmly on her back. For a fraction of a second she thinks Kelley is trying to put a move on her—and then she feels herself tumbling forward into the water.

_Damn you, Kelley O’Hara._

Hope resurfaces, coughing and spitting up water. Kelley is laughing hysterically and rolling on the dock.

“If you weren’t pregnant, I could do some serious damage right now,” Hope threatens, swimming back towards the dock.

Kelley offers her hand out to pull Hope back onto the dry dock and yanks it back seconds before Hope grabs it. “Truce,” she says, a world of seriousness in her eyes. Hope nods, laughter in her eyes, and Kelley shakes her head again. “Swear to God, Hope, if you pull me in…”

There is a loud crack of thunder overhead as Hope flops onto the dock dramatically, and Kelley squeals shrilly.

“Hope, run!!!”

Before Hope can even get to her feet, Kelley is sprinting up the dock—and two seconds later, it’s clear why. In a matter of instances, the clouds have opened up and rain begins to fall in sheets. Thunder and lightning boom overhead. Hope jumps to her feet as if it’s second reflex, like she just saved a shot but there’s another coming right toward her, and follows Kelley as fast as she can to the house. Kelley reaches the front porch a few moments before her, soaked and slightly out of breath. She collapses onto the porch swing and sighs dramatically.

“I thought we for sure had more time before the storm hit.”

Hope gives them both the once-over—soaked from head to toe, muddy legs from running through the field to take a “shortcut.” She doesn’t even get a chance to say anything before Kelley is stripping off her tee shirt on the front porch, followed by her shorts.

“Strip down and I’ll go grab us some towels. Mom just redid the kitchen floors and she’ll never forgive me if I track mud and water across her new wood floors.”

Hope isn’t sure if her jaw is hanging open or not, but she numbly obeys, pulling her shorts down and peeling the fabric of her tee shirt away from her abs and arms. They land in a heap on the porch, water seeping onto the wood in a pool. She glances up to catch Kelley’s naked body behind the screen door and gulps. If that’s the game they’re going to play, so be it. She can play it too.

When Kelley returns, a fluffy robe secured around her body and her hair brushed out, Hope is standing fully unclothed on the front porch. Kelley all but has a heart attack, blinking hard at the sight in front of her and smacking her lips drily as she stumbles toward her. Hope can feel a cocky smirk rising in her chest, but she fights it back and brazenly takes the towel Kelley is holding. (Kelley is trying to play it cool and miserably failing. She almost drops the towel before Hope can take it, and she can feel the heat off her skin from two feet away. A scarlet flush creeps up her back and neck and finally settles in her cheeks. She can’t help but swallow hard as their hands touch.)

“Cat got your tongue?”

Hope is very pleased with the result of her nakedness. Kelley has been rendered unable to speak or tear her eyes away or even form coherent thoughts. This is the Hope that Kelley loves—confident, teasing, bold, unafraid. She’s always done that to Kelley, who had never been anything but flirty and commanding and a take-charge kind of girl before. At one time Kelley had been the one who approached people in bars, who pushed people against walls for hungry kisses, who caught someone by surprise or off-guard with her boldness. But Hope makes Kelley speechless. She makes her wide-eyed and submissive, lacking in the brazen confidence she once had.

But Kelley is a fast thinker and has her old don’t-care vibe back. She says the first thing that comes to her mind—something she knows will knock Hope off her feet, the same effect that Hope’s naked body had on Kelley. “Nah, I’m just thinking about how much I want you in my bedsheets right now.”

She’s right. Kelley’s nonchalant remark is tainted with confidence and a casual tone that Hope can’t quite wrap her mind around, and it catches her as off-guard as Hope Solo can ever be. As soon as the words leave her mouth, Kelley turns and saunters back inside, a smug little smirk playing on her lips. Hope manages to get the towel secured around her chest and follows after her like a lost puppy.

“Kell, what?!”

(Kelley keeps walking. The excitement and desire is making her heart rate speed up.)

Purposefully, Kelley slows down a bit. She’s tired of the tension between them, the are-we/aren’t-we thing they have going on. She misses Hope. She’s done playing games. She’s tired of the ache between her legs. So what if she wants to be caught.

“Kelley, what the hell did you just say to me?!” Hope’s voice is not angry or accusing, it’s raspy and coated with want. Her eyes are dark and brimming with lust. She spins Kelley around, slightly rough with desire.

Kelley stares at Hope, biting her lip and letting the tension build for a moment longer. “I said I want to—“

Hope’s lips cut Kelley short. “Fuck me.”


	12. like you mean it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting better. At least for Hope and Kelley.

Hope has a terrible habit of thinking she’s far more prepared for things than she actually is.

It takes Kelley less than two seconds to connect their lips desperately, crashing in for a kiss that fully communicates just how hungrily and lustfully she wants Hope. A shock runs throughout Hope’s entire body, starting at the corners of her mouth where Kelley is now sucking gently, and running into her brain (she can’t fucking think straight), her heart (is it even still beating?), her core (damn it Kelley) and her toes (is she paralyzed?) She thought she was prepared for the electricity that would course through her veins when they kissed—the white-hot rush of blood and adrenaline and want, the tingling of her toes and numbness of her mind. Once again, she has overestimated herself, because she cannot control her reaction to Kelley’s frantic touch.

Without meaning to, Hope melts further into the kiss and ignores the fire burning deep in her stomach, forcing her tongue past Kelley’s slightly parted lips and letting her hands roam beneath Kelley’s robe. A slight gasp escapes from Kelley’s mouth into Hope’s, only egging her on further. She encircles her arms around Kelley’s waist and begins to pull her toward the stairs. Lust is boiling in her blood, and she’s far past the point of denying what she wants. She’s withheld good things from herself for far too long. It feels almost predatory, dangerous even, kissing Kelley so passionately and so desperately, but she’s past the point of caring. Only a paper-thin robe and a soft white towel separate them as Hope forces their bodies closer together.

Their mouths still hungrily exploring every free inch of skin, Kelley pushes Hope commandingly into something hard behind them—a wall, a picture frame, the banister, the dining room table, it doesn’t matter. Hope has lost sense of where she even is. The tiny squeak of discomfort she lets out does nothing to slow Kelley down. Instead, Kelley just sheds the robe and threads her fingers through her dripping hair, pulling back and staring. Her pupils are so dark and dilated that Hope can barely see the golden flecks of her irises. Hope’s eyes grow round as she realizes just how dangerously close they are standing, especially now that Kelley has lost her robe—not that it was doing much covering anyway. She’s close enough to feel Kelley’s short, hot breaths against her chest and count all the tiny cinnamon-spatter of freckles across her bare shoulders.

Before Hope can do anything else, they are stumbling up the stairs with Kelley kissing Hope’s lips swollen again, hands hungrily and clumsily fighting to pull off the towel that is secured around her chest. Hope stomps backwards up the creaky stairwell, several times nearly bringing them both crashing to the floor. She’s already too far gone to care. Kelley’s bedroom is only a few more steps from them, but it seems like an entire soccer field away when Hope opens her eyes for a fraction of a second. Kelley finally is able to free the towel from around Hope’s torso, and her eyes roam unashamedly up and down the goalkeeper’s body. Then she is kissing again, gentler this time, soft and slow along the sloped curve of Hope’s jaw, right where she knows it will drive her crazy.

There’s something hard and uncomfortable digging into Hope’s spine when Kelley slams her up against the door. Hope can’t tell if it’s the doorknob or the whiteboard that says “Welcome to Kelley’s Room - Knock When You Enter, Close the Door When You Leave!” but she lets out a frustrated moan—Kelley’s cue to get a move on before Hope takes complete control of the situation and does things her way entirely. Sensing the pent-up tension searching for release, Kelley frees one hand from discovering Hope’s back all over again and finds the doorknob, pushing it open. Hope stumbles through the door urgently, pulling her by the wrists to the bed. She trips backward over the trundle bed, pulling them both to the plastic mattress with a loud crash. The fire burning in her stomach has spread to the rest of her body—all of her feels hot, electric, and tingles with excitement. With an involuntary moan, she slides her palms down Kelley’s bare back.

Still breathless and lips kissed red, Kelley pulls back and shakes her head at Hope. Confusion and need are brimming in Hope’s eyes, and her hips buck frantically into Kelley’s slightest move. She shakes her head again, nodding toward the bed a foot above them. Thankfully Hope gets the clue—they are not going to have sex on a plastic mattress. The ten seconds it takes for Hope to flop onto the bed are ten seconds too many. Kelley doesn’t even have time to kick her bedroom door shut with her foot before Hope has snagged her by the wrist and pulled her down onto the bed. Kelley is too weak to resist. It’s been a while for her too—at least it feels like it has. It’s been too long, anyway, since she’s had Hope between her legs like she belongs there.

Any remaining ounce of self-control Hope had goes flying out the window the second Kelley’s hand wanders from her neck to her chest, skimming over her torso absentmindedly and then down to where Hope needs it the most, just ghosting over her like a feather. She can’t control the heavy sigh that escapes her lips, and Kelley looks up at her with those wide golden eyes, biting her bottom lip so hard Hope is certain she’s seconds from drawing blood. Then Kelley, eyes not leaving the icy blue irises directly in front of her, drags her tongue roughly across Hope’s hips, down her pelvic bone, circling her upper thigh. She waits until she gets an approving, needy nod from Hope before assertively flattening her palm against Hope’s stomach. Kelley has never had this much control over Hope before—Hope is very bossy—and she’s enjoying every second of it, the writhing of Hope’s body with every touch, the way her back arches off the well-worn mattress, the way her throat is exposed as she throws her head back in pleasure, the soft little noises she continues to utter every single time Kelley brings her to the edge and then backs off.

Twice, Kelley drags out every touch as long as she can without sending Hope spiraling, fascinated by the way Hope seems so vulnerable when she’s not in control—the way she mutters Kelley’s name pleadingly and writhes against Kelley’s opposition, the way she curls her toes against the sheets. The third time she tries the same thing, hoping for the same result, she feels Hope’s hand guiding her own and hears a frustrated, “For fuck’s sake, Kelley, stop the teasing.” She replaces her hand with her mouth and doesn’t move again until Hope’s breath evens out and the sheets twisted in her hands are released.

Hope knows she shouldn’t have done it—shouldn’t have encouraged it, shouldn’t have asked for it, shouldn’t have begged and pleaded and surrendered her body to Kelley’s control. She shouldn’t have let Kelley back into her heart so easily. She had made it far too simple for Kelley to come crashing back into her life, and she had done it without meaning to. She had let the little things creep in and get to her again—the squeal Kelley always let out when she was happy, the smirk when she was getting cocky, the childish hands-on-hip superhero stance that she took when she was studying things. The worst part is, she doesn’t care at all. She’s spent too much of her life convinced that she doesn’t get what she wants, that she has to sit back and watch while everyone around her gets their happy ending. She’s spent too much time feeling like she shouldn’t have what she wants most, like she shouldn’t rely on anyone because they could hurt her at any given time. She’s spent too much of her life shying away from risks unless they’re on the soccer field. So for now, she’s perfectly content to know that she shouldn’t have done it.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ashlyn feels used up.

She feels like she has nothing left to give. She’s drained completely—mentally, physically, and emotionally. She’s burned out, used up, and empty.

It’s not the dark of the night when the fear starts to control her, but the middle of the afternoon. At first, it takes her by surprise. It’s not the blackest night or the hidden moon or the silhouette of the tree against a velvet sky that send panic up and down her spine and make it hard to breathe. It’s the blazing sun against the deep blue of the horizon. It’s the stillness of the oak tree out of the corner of her eye. It’s the quiet bobbing of the sailboats at Navy Pier that make her breath catch in her throat and her heart race.

She doesn’t want to ruin the afternoon for Ali. Kyle is back in town already, and they took the afternoon to drive to Annapolis for an impromptu touristy date. She already feels like she’s been such a drag the past two days, trying not to jump at every loud noise, stare at every person who walks by and holds her gaze for a second too long, pounce protectively at every interaction. Ali finally feels up for spending a beautiful afternoon with her family after feeling sick since the shooting, and Kyle is only here until Friday, so she tries to ignore the way her heart picks up pace. She pushes the anxiety rising in her chest back down and swallows hard, squeezing her eyes shut against the harsh 3 o’clock sun and telling herself to pull it together. She knows she’s been testy and hard to deal with, and the last thing she needs is a scene in a very public space to convince Ali that she should see a therapist or a trauma counselor.

A few yards in front of her, Ali walks in step with Kyle. With one hand on a sleeping Beckett’s stroller, she uses the other to gesture animatedly at the sailboat directly to their left and explain something animatedly to her brother. Somewhere behind Ashlyn, someone lets out a delighted yelp. A knot immediately forms in her gut, and she grits her teeth together sharply. The metallic taste of blood waters in her mouth as she bites her tongue. She balls her fists tightly and keeps walking. She’s not going to do this, not here. To her right, a teenage girl shouts “stop!” Defensively, Ashlyn whirls to face the scene. The girl is tackled into a hug by her boyfriend, laughing loudly. Again, she clenches her jaw. Not here.

The ball of panic in her chest remains as she catches up to Ali and Kyle, jogging off her outward worry. She joins in on their sibling banter, tossing insults and jokes back and forth casually. She’s going to be alright. If she can just hold it together for a few more hours, she’s going to be alright. This won’t feel so heavy. She’ll be able to breathe. She won’t need to fall apart any more. The more she tries to convince herself of this, the better off she will be. She’s going to be alright. She’s going to make it. She can prove to herself and to Ali that she is going to be just fine. She doesn’t need to break down to be okay.

For a while, that works. She can play off any worry she has, drown the panic with laughter, forget about the fear for a moment. Ali and Kyle make it easy. They talk about the future—about soccer and Kyle’s boyfriend and Luna and take bets on if Ali will have a boy or a girl. Ashlyn and Ali say girl. Kyle says twins. Everything seems fine. Ashlyn will be okay. If she can wait another hour to give in to the panic and fear, she will be okay. There’s going to be a light at the end of all this, and she’s headed straight for it. Ali is starting to feel exhausted, and Kyle agrees that the sun has really taken it out of him too. Beckett’s awake from his nap and hungry. They’re heading back through the sidewalks and streets of the Naval Academy when it all comes crashing down.

Ashlyn is no more than a step or two behind her wife and brother-in-law, listening intently to their playful conversation and empty threats to call their mom, when someone roughly bumps into her shoulder. It throws her off balance, and she’s forced to stumble off the sidewalk a few steps. The coldness of the contact, the aggression of the whole situation…it takes her straight back to Marilyn Hendricks field and the way the gunman had seemed to show no interest in her, knocking into her carelessly as he fled from the scene. Something inside of her—the little resolve she had left—snaps.

“Watch it!” she yells harshly and argumentatively.

Ali stops dead in her tracks and slowly turns to face Ashlyn. “Baby, leave it alone. It was an accident. Let’s go.”

The offending party—a kid no older than eighteen—turns to face her too. A cocky smirk has appeared on his face. “You watch it, lady.”

“Ashlyn. Baby. It’s not worth it. Come on. Let’s go home,” Ali pleads, watching her wife’s fists ball up and her jaw tighten.

There is something cold and emotionless in Ashlyn’s eyes now. She wants to leave it alone. She wants to walk away and go home, eat some crock-pot pulled pork, get Ali to bed and apologize profusely for causing a scene at Annapolis. With a hard blink, she convinces herself to nod and take a step toward Ali, ready to drive back to D.C. and pretend this never happened.

“Yeah, sweetheart, you heard the lady. Go home. Leave it be.”

Apparently the boy can’t leave well enough alone. Ashlyn spins on her heels to face him again. “What did you just call me?!”

“Ashlyn, come on. It’s not worth it. He’s just a kid. He doesn’t know what respect is.” Now even Kyle is begging her to put down her weapons. “Don’t do this here.”

The kid turns rudely to face Kyle, then nods at Ashlyn again. “Listen to the fag, lady. Don’t do this in front of your wife.” He’s already crossed a line, but he keeps going. “Bunch of fucking queers. You’re disgusting. You sicken me.”

With that, Ashlyn can physically feel what little resolve was holding her together break. How dare he say that about the one person she loves more than anything else in the world. How dare he insult her brother-in-law and use such filthy language. The emptiness in her eyes returns. She doesn’t even feel it when she lands a hard right hook in his jaw. She doesn’t feel it when she continues to pound her fists into his face over and over, each one rendering him less and less human. She doesn’t feel Kyle pulling her off him or hear Ali screaming and crying at her to stop. She doesn’t feel the strong arms of a naval officer restrain her from behind. She doesn’t feel the handcuffs being slapped onto her wrists or the rough way she is shoved into the police car.

She doesn’t feel anything.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Hope wakes up with her naked chest pressed into Kelley’s bare back.

The sheets are tangled between her ankles, and her face feels cool from the sweat dried onto her brow. As softly as possible, she rises from behind Kelley and pulls the nearest shirt over her head. (It’s Kelley’s Stanford hoodie. She takes it without a second thought.) It’s mid-afternoon by now, with evening quickly approaching. Dan, Karen, Jerry, and Erin will all be home soon. A gentle rain has continued to fall all day, the thunder and lightning gone but the drizzle remaining. For a heartbeat, it reminds Hope of Seattle, and her chest flutters at the memory of her home.

A glance in the mirror on the back of Kelley’s door takes Hope by surprise. She almost doesn’t recognize herself. Her hair is messy and tousled—probably not from sleep, either—and her eyes are still wide and dark. Slight bruises and bite marks trail up her inner thighs and on her collarbones, and—shit. Oh shit. Is that a hickey? She lets out a groan. If the girls in Seattle or at national team camp get wind of this, she’ll never hear the end of it. Pinoe will make jokes about it for the rest of time, and Abby will smile like she’s not a total hypocrite. Her lips are swollen and bright red. Otherwise, Hope looks happy. She looks like the world has been taken off her shoulders.

“You look hot.”

Kelley is sitting up in bed now, Hope can see in the mirror. She has the sheets pulled up around her chest and is pulling her hair into a sloppy bun. Hope casts a soft smile her way.

“Sleeping Beauty has awoken,” she says fondly, leaving her position in front of the mirror to go to Kelley. She stops directly in front of her and drops to her knees softly, placing her hands on Kelley’s knees and giving them a squeeze. Framing Kelley’s jaw in her hand, she presses a sweet kiss to the tip of her nose. “How was the nap?”

“Is that a hickey?” Kelley returns, completely ignoring Hope’s question. She breaks into a wide grin. “Cool. I hope everyone sees it.”

“I hope that nap was fan-fucking-tastic because you won’t be cuddling me again,” Hope says with a dryness in her voice that Kelley has missed more than anything. (Well, almost anything. What she and Hope had shared before they fell into an exhausted slumber was pretty amazing.)

She watches as Kelley pulls on a tee shirt, not even commenting on the fact that Hope is in her hoodie, and then a pair of boy briefs. “You’re sometimes super evil, ya know that?”

“You’re sometimes super adorable, ya know that?” Hope places her palm against Kelley’s belly and addresses the baby boy inside. “Your mom is crazy, little one.”

“Crazy about you,” Kelley corrects.

It only takes a second or two for Hope to realize she’s saying that she’s crazy about her, not the baby.


	13. to hell and back.

Ashlyn has never been to hell, but she imagines it’s a lot like her jail cell.

(She’s never been to jail before either, but if she had to guess she’d say that the corrections officer who gave her a very thorough patdown is always this handsy too.)

It’s cold, much colder than she thought it would be, and it’s every bit as terrifying as it seems on all the police dramas she and Ali watch at night. There’s not much she remembers about why she is actually here, having her mugshot taken and her dignity stripped from her, but she guesses it has something to do with the throbbing in her knuckles. She tries to act like she knows what’s going on, what’s coming next—they take all her belongings, including her wedding band, and snap pictures of all her tattoos. She stands in front of a board that marks her height as 5’8” (she wants to correct them—she’s 5’9”—but her voice hasn’t worked since she arrived at the corrections facility) and holds a sign that says “Harris, Ashlyn Michelle.” She wants to see it for approval, but she knows that’s not how it works, and besides all that orange isn’t really her color.

A large, intimidating woman leads her to a cell that looks almost exactly like one would expect. There’s a cot built into one corner, draped in clean white sheets with a scratchy, thin pillow at the head. There are no windows and no cellmates. Perfectly lonely. Ashlyn enters without hesitation or opposition. Whatever she did to get here was obviously pretty serious, so maybe she should stay. The worst thing she could ever do was hurt Ali, and if being in jail wasn’t enough hurt, snapping on her physically would be. If she’s here, Ali is safe, and that’s all that matters. Before the door to the cell falls shut, the officer gives Ashlyn a long, almost sad look, then purses her lips and lets the sound of the slam ring out through the jail.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Kelley sets a place for Hope at the dinner table right between herself and her dad.

Hope tries to act like the domesticity doesn’t scare her, but it’s more than she’s used to. Dan and Karen returned from Savannah in their Sunday best—Karen still wears a pant suit in pastel pink with Kendra Scott earrings and her hair twisted elegantly into a bun, but has traded her white kitten heels for some tan Birkenstocks (Hope knows Kelley has the same pair and wonders if they share shoes); Dan remains in his pressed khaki pants and navy blue polo shirt. Apparently the O’Haras don’t really eat out—ever—so instead of calling for a pizza or asking Erin to pick something up on her way home from work, Karen gets to work in the kitchen. She claimed she would “just whip somethin’ up, not too much trouble,” and Hope isn’t sure if this is an impressive spread all for her or if this really is a casual meal for the family. When she’s cooking for herself, “whipping something up” normally means a turkey wrap or some fish from the market.

Karen has made chicken fried steak, garlic mashed potatoes, creamed corn, green beans, macaroni and cheese, and salad. From the oven, Hope smells the butter and sugar of the peach cobbler baking. Her stomach growls at the thought. It’s been a long time since she’s had a nice home cooked meal that wasn’t just one dish, and Karen O’Hara’s cooking is famous throughout the team. When they were in Vancouver for the World Cup, Kelley would get a package a week filled with whatever homemade goodness Karen had “whipped up” in the kitchen—chocolate chip cookies, churros, lemon crinkle cookies, salted caramel brownie bites. They had kept the snacking on the down-low. Dawn didn’t need to know what they were doing when she wasn’t forcing carbs and salad down their throats.

The whole family helps out in dinner preparations, including Jerry and Dan. They are in charge of carrying dishes from the oven and stove to set on potholders on the dining room table. Jerry also helps by tossing the salad and slicing tomatoes to add to the spinach and greens. Erin lives in an apartment in Atlanta, but she always drives to Peachtree for supper. It’s a tradition. The O’Haras prefer to spend every meal together. As for Hope, she peels potatoes while Kelley and Erin set the table. It seems to be a routine the entire family has had down for years—Karen cooks, the girls help and set the table. Dan and Jerry are in charge of dishes after meals, and Kelley boxes up leftovers. Hope isn’t quite sure where she fits into the equation yet, but she wants to.

Dinner with Kelley’s family is everything Hope thought it would be, everything she remembered it to be. Karen tells them about the philanthropist conference, her garden, and quilting club—“Kelley, I finished piecing together the quilt for my grandson and I’m taking it to get quilted tomorrow!”—and Dan talks about what’s happening with the pastor search at church. (He thinks they really might have found God’s man for their people, and will they all be in prayer that this is who God has in store for them?) Jerry and Hope discuss the dock—it’s definitely time to rebuild; it won’t be safe much longer, especially when Kelley has a little one running around—and everyone is engrossed in Erin’s story about the case she’s taken on and the guy she’s about to represent. Kelley asks Hope about who’s ranked what in the national team’s intense, ongoing basketball tournament—Pearcie’s team is still first, of course, and Ashlyn’s is last.

It feels natural to pass the potatoes and green beans back and forth between herself and Jerry, and something hits Hope as she spoons more gravy onto her chicken fried steak—it shouldn’t be this easy. It shouldn’t be so natural to sit sandwiched between Kelley and her dad, hearing about everything that’s happening in the family, laughing about Erin’s speeding ticket, fielding questions about Nike advertisements and NWSL playoffs and the U19 Women’s World Cup. It shouldn’t be this easy to hear Dan tell a story about the time Kelley was nine and sat at the lunch table for six hours because she refused to finish her asparagus. She catches herself nudging Kelley when Karen makes yet another Steel Magnolias reference, and Erin taps her shin under the table when Kelley indignantly yells that she does not hate asparagus any more.

(She totally still hates asparagus.)

“How long are you staying, Hope?” Karen asks brightly as they clear the table after dinner.

A few yards away, Kelley is spooning the leftover gravy, mashed potatoes, corn, and green beans into separate Tupperware containers. Hope casts her a quick glance over her shoulder before setting down the plate of chicken fried steak crumbs beside the sink. “I can’t stay too long. I’ve got to get back to my team. We play the Spirit in the first round of playoffs on Sunday afternoon.”

“That’s a shame. We’d love to have you stay longer, help fix the dock, put you to work in the garden. Kelley has told me all about your beautiful garden in Seattle. Organic, I assume? Maybe lasagna farming?”

And just like that, Hope is swept up in polite conversation about tomato plants and pepper growing—lasagna farming, of course—with Kelley’s mom. The Southern hospitality is real.

Karen insists on Hope sleeping in Kelley’s room even though she had planned on moving her stuff to Erin’s bedroom when they returned. (Hope had finally relented on insisting she move, saying she’d stay in Kelley’s room “if you insist,” to which Karen had replied in a very matter-of-fact way that reminded her of Kelley, “oh I do.”) Much to Kelley’s horror, Karen has tacked the poster of Abby back up over her bed, and Abby smiles confidently from where she’s frozen in 1999 next to Mia Hamm. Karen clears her throat sweetly behind them, standing in the doorway with an unknowing smile on her face. She is still in her business suit with an apron tied around her waist, smattered with gravy, flour, and a smash of peach.

“I hung your poster back up, honey. I figured it fell.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mom. Thanks. Whatever. Hope’s probably really tired and I am too,” Kelley mumbles, her back facing her mother and her face growing red with embarrassment.

With a small laugh, Karen turns to Hope like they have an inside joke. “She got that poster of Abby Wambach when she was 11. It’s been hanging in her room since the ’99 World Cup. One time it fell off the wall and I thought she was going to cry all night. Couldn’t sleep without it above her bed. She said, ‘goodnight, Abby. One day I’m going to be like you’ every night.” Tears swim in her eyes. “Look at my baby now.”

“Goodnight, Mom,” Kelley says through clenched teeth, firmly pushing her mom backward and pulling the door shut.

“Towels are in the guest bathroom! If you need anything let me know! I’m just a few rooms down!” Karen calls as Kelley forces her out the door. Hope barely catches the last word.

Hope unzips her duffle and gives Kelley a sarcastic, amused smirk. “I didn’t know Abby lived at your house, too.”

“Shut up,” Kelley mutters, her cheeks still flushed scarlet.

“No, no, it’s sweet.” Hope pauses as she debates whether or not to say what’s come to mind. She decides to go with it anyway. “Oh, I’m sorry—should I step out?”

Kelley looks confused. “Why would you need to step out? We just saw each other naked just earlier today.”

“Oh, I just thought maybe you needed to call Abby…tell her goodnight.”

A pillow comes hurling toward Hope’s face. She catches it with ease and casts her best smile in Kelley’s direction. “Just wondering.”

With that, Kelley marches over to her bed and rips the poster off the wall. “Fucking embarrassing,” she whispers, not able to bring herself to rip the poster in half or crumple it up. “I did not tell Abby goodnight. Swear to God.”

“Of course you didn’t, Kell. Abby didn’t know you existed. You told her poster goodnight.”

Kelley groans frustratedly. “That was a fucking decade and a half ago.”

“Sure it was.”

With a wink, Hope grabs her toothbrush and walks to the bathroom.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The cold, hard metal of her cot digs into Ashlyn’s hip as she curls up on her side.

It reminds her of an examination table at the gynecologist’s—she’s halfway expecting stirrups to be hidden beneath the cot, but there’s nothing but a chewed-up wad of gum and a scratch into the metal that reads “fuck the police.” The whole cell takes on less of a pap smear feel and more like that of a high school bathroom. Ashlyn sighs heavily and presses her cheek closer into the metallic surface of her cot. She’s tucked the thin white sheets around her, but they feel too scratchy and too much like tissue paper. For a moment, she allows herself to wonder what Ali is doing, if Beckett is asleep, if they’re both okay. The idea of sweet Ali having to field questions from nosy reporters makes a pit of guilt form in her belly. They would tear her apart with their prodding, and she wouldn’t budge. Thankfully, Ali has always been good with the media. She knows what questions are and aren’t appropriate to answer, and she knows how to deflect questions about her personal life. At least Ashlyn has that going for her.

She doesn’t know what time it is, but her stomach growls angrily and there is no natural light coming in from anywhere so she assumes it’s probably after dark. Everything has come back to her, and she wishes it hadn’t. Now she’s forced to be another statistic, another example of post-traumatic stress. She has no choice but to face that fact. Outside her jail cell, the rest of the world is probably debating her predicament, and they’re probably all torn about what to think. The misogynists and radical feminists of the world will cry that there’s a double standard amongst violence; that people turn their heads the other way when a woman is arrested for assault; that if she is released and charges are dropped, people have developed a stereotype that violence is one-sided and gender-based; that athletes are held to a different standard when it comes to abuse than the rest of the world. The mental healthcare advocates will lobby for her, reminding the world that she was part of a shooting that killed thirteen people just three days ago and that her actions were a result of post-traumatic stress disorder; they’ll claim that the modern world has turned their back on mental health issues and that the gap needs to be resolved. Her diehard fans—the ones who write fan fictions about her and Ali and have fan pages on Twitter and Instagram dedicated purely to them—will continue to believe that she can do no wrong and keep posting pictures of her—her mugshot, probably, with a junior high filter on it and sparkly stars spelling ‘We love you Ashlyn!!!’

She turns over on her cot and sighs. She doesn’t deserve to leave. Not that she would want to leave, anyway. It’s safe here. She’s alone and there is nobody to hurt but herself. When she’s in this jail cell, as much as it feels like hell, she doesn’t have to worry about holding it together for Ali. She doesn’t have to bother with pasting on a smile and willing herself to not lose it yet. If she wants to cry, she can cry; if she wants to scream, she can scream; if she wants to be terrified, she can be terrified. Nobody is around to care.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ali isn’t sure yet if she’s going to pay Ashlyn’s bail.

She wants to, but she saw the look in her eyes when she lunged at the kid. It was cold, icy, and hateful. Her irises had been void of all emotion—the harsh, empty gaze of someone who felt absolutely nothing.

(Maybe she’s watched too much Criminal Minds. Maybe she’s seen one too many episodes of NCIS or Law and Order. But to Ali, her eyes looked like a killer’s.)

For the first time in her life, Ali is scared of someone she loves. Scared doesn’t even cut it, actually—she’s terrified. She has never once feared for her safety around Ashlyn. If anything, Ashlyn is a protector, always looking out for others and making sure they are safe. For the first time in her life, Ali was scared. She was scared of the sheer power Ashlyn exhibited, the way her muscles rippled as she put all of her energy into hurting someone. The fear had been buried for a while by sheer horror, and she had been paralyzed in shock. She couldn’t move from where she stood, so she stood by and watched Ashlyn beat the boy in front of her until he was almost unconscious. Such explosive anger was something Ali had only ever seen on TV before. She knew Ashlyn had struggled with anger when she was younger, but she had never seen any side of her wife but the kind, considerate, loving side.

It scared the hell out of her.

She’s tired of interviews and calls from Jill and texts from the rest of the team and tweets from concerned fans as well as haters and Kyle feeling sorry for her. Hours have passed, and she has spent every second trying to make things right. She has talked with the parents of the boy—he has a broken mandible, a few teeth knocked out, and a concussion, but he’s going to be fine. With them she spent the whole time apologizing profusely, telling them that she doesn’t know what came over Ashlyn because she’s never been like this before, assuring them that she won’t take the easy road, promising them that she is going to get Ashlyn some help, and trying not to cry in front of them. She’s been juggling questions from the media, giving them only the statement that the police released—yes, Ashlyn was arrested for assault; yes, it is an effect of the shooting; she will be working with the police and mental health experts to establish what will happen next; please respect our privacy during this difficult time.

When Jill had called, Ali had answered with a sigh. (Jill would interpret this as an ‘attitude problem,’ but Ali didn’t care.) She had told her all she could—Ashlyn was arrested. She nailed a kid in the face after he became antagonistic and rude, but she doesn’t want to shift blame. The police recommended holding her for a few days at least, and if her bail is paid they want to send her to Walter Reed for observation. Ali guesses Ash won’t be returning to the national team for a while, until she can prove that she has worked past all her issues and is ready to positively impact the team. That being said, Ashlyn will really need the support of their team during this time. And then she had told Jill she was “going to let her go,” which would only add to Jill’s frustration, but Ali still didn’t care. Jill is a grown woman. If she’s dealt with Hope all these years, she can handle a little slip-up from Ashlyn.

The team has been rather supportive. Abby had been the first to text, saying, “Heard about Annapolis - let me know if there’s anything I can do. Love ya Kriegs.” She’d received messages from Carli, Crystal, Kling, Morgan, Alex, and A-Rod at around the same time, and she can remember that they all said something along the lines of “you okay? Praying Ash gets the help she needs. Rooting for you!” Tobin and Cheney had both sent encouraging Bible verses her way, accompanied with lots of heartfelt advice about strength. Morgan and Julie had called Ali in a panic, having heard a twisted ‘National Enquirer’ version of the story in which Ashlyn was attacked at Annapolis instead of being the attacker. That had been fun to set straight—nope, it was Ashlyn, she’s in jail…I assume she’s fine, I haven’t been to see her yet. None the less, they are all eager to support the duo and stand by them come what may. It’s good to have this group of women in her corner, Ali admits—she wouldn’t want to fight them in a million years.

Normally, Ali would ignore the tweets from her followers—generally they were pretty nice, a little overexcited, and little annoying sometimes—and reply to a select few, if someone had a particularly cute kid in a Krieger-Harris jersey or had traveled hours and hours to see her play, but the influx of comments she’s received since Ashlyn’s arrest have been hard to ignore, and it’s mainly the rude ones she wants to reply to. She wants to reply and tell them that they’re wrong. Ashlyn is not violent, she’s broken. She’s not dangerous, she’s scared. Everybody goes through hard times; Ashlyn has to go through hers very publicly. Ashlyn was shot at less than a week ago; Ali shouldn’t have pushed her to be fine so soon. The worst part is having to ignore them. Every fiber of her being wants to defend Ashlyn, protect her, but she knows that she can’t keep fighting other people’s battles for them.

Currently, Ali is sitting in her driveway in Ashlyn’s Jeep with cameras flashing behind her. (This has to be harassment or stalking, right? The media shouldn’t know where she lives and they most certainly shouldn’t follow her to her home.) The lights glow through a few of the windows—the living room, Beckett’s room, and the entryway, Ali can tell from the car. It takes her a few minutes to convince herself to get out and make a mad dash for the back door, but when she does, she’s fairly certain it’s the fast 50-meter-dash of her life. Her head is pounding from how fast she moved, but she ignores it. Upstairs, she can hear Beckett crying.

“Kyle, he should already be asleep,” she calls annoyedly through the mudroom. “I swear to God there better be a good reason as to why he is not asleep.” Dropping her keys into the dish by the back door, Ali sheds her jacket and hangs her purse up on its hook. She slips off her Nikes and leaves them on the floor, then continues through the laundry room to the kitchen.

Kyle is standing numbly in front of the kitchen island, a sweaty bottle of beer sitting inches from his hands, which are balled tightly into fists. He’s been here before—he can find his way out, or he can find his way back in, and Ali isn’t sure which road he is going to take.

“Hey,” she says softly, taking another cautious step toward him. “Kyle.” She reaches her hand out and gently lays it on his forearm. It’s only then that he looks at her, guilt and pain and shame and sheer confusion overflowing from his eyes.

“I thought…” he begins quietly, his hand slipping back around the lukewarm glass bottle, “that I deserved to have this after the day we had.”

Ali can only nod. She knows that this was the life Kyle had known for so long, that this is the way he had dealt with difficult situations for a very long time. She knows that this was his instinct, to self-medicate when things became overwhelming, to drink away the pain, and if alcohol wouldn’t do it, to drug away the pain. As much as it still kills her to know that her brother, her hero, her other half had felt so miserable for so long—that he thought it better to risk his life than to continue feeling what he had to feel—she also knows that he values his life now way too much to throw it all away because his sister-in-law had a breakdown. So she just nods as she thinks, watching his every move.

“You could drink it, you know.”

When she finally speaks, it isn’t at all what Kyle expected to hear. He looks to his sister with confusion and hurt in his eyes.

“I mean you could, couldn’t you, Kyle? You could drink it because today has been shit. You could, and I’d be able to see why you did it—this is what you did for so long, and old habits die hard. If that’s really what you want to do, really what you think will make what happened today any easier, then go for it. Go. Chug the beer and take another, there’s a twelve pack in the garage fridge. If you honest to God think that alcohol is going to make you feel better, go right on ahead and drink that beer.” Ali pauses and makes sure their eyes are locked dead on so he fully understands what she’s telling him.

“But if you drink that beer, if that’s the choice you make, remember that there will be consequences. If you drink again and throw away what you’ve worked years for, I will make sure that the second you feel like everything is okay it won’t be. You drink, and you never see me or your nephew again. You drink and I will make sure Mom and Dad know that this is the life you have chosen for yourself—that you value your own selfish life over those around you. If you drink, you will not have a bed to sleep in at night because I will find a way to make all your money disappear. You drink, you lose everything, including me, Kyle, and I’m not joking, because I love you way too much to watch you waste your life away again. I will not watch you drink yourself to death or get high to feel everything a little less or fall in with a group of people who would love to watch you die a slow death. I love you way too much to allow you to stay in my life if you drink, and maybe that’s because I’m selfish and I don’t want to watch you kill yourself, but it’s also because I care too much, and I don’t want you to have to see me fall apart when you come unraveled. So make your choice, Kyle, but don’t expect me to stick around your life if you’re planning on drinking that beer.”

Ali lets her soft gaze rest on her brother for another beat or two before she turns and heads up the stairs to check on Beckett. “Remember what you have going for you, Kyle. You’re too special to throw it all away. And he’s going to need his uncle.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“I think Abby is watching us kiss.”

Hope can’t resist the joke as she snuggles closer to Kelley on the twin bed, her long arms wrapped loosely around Kelley’s waist and their foreheads resting against each other.

“You’re killing the vibe, Solo.”

Kelley does not seem near as amused with the joke as Hope, so naturally Hope is going to keep pushing until she is. “Did she watch us have sex earlier?”

“Hope, I swear in front of Abby and God and everybody…” Kelley warns.

“He’s watching too?!” Hope cracks up, unable to control the laughter that bubbles up in her chest. When a pillow lands firmly on the side of her head with a loud thump, she holds her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop!”

Kelley is not convinced. “That poster was from fifth grade, Hope. Jesus. I had a long awkward phase, okay?!” She turns over grumpily, her back now pressed to Hope’s chest. Pouty Kelley is one to be reckoned with, only coming out when she’s teased relentlessly (sometimes at Hope’s mercy, mostly at the hands of Syd or Pinoe) or the restaurant doesn’t serve chocolate milk. “I’m throwing the poster away tomorrow. Or burning it. Probably burning it.”

“Don’t burn Abby! She’d be so hurt!” Hope pauses and shifts the joke onto Abby instead of Kelley. “Besides, by now that poster is probably a valuable piece of history. You could sell it on eBay or to the Smithsonian for like 5K.” When this doesn’t elicit a response, she nips at Kelley’s neck softly. “I’m done teasing you about the poster now.”

“Good,” Kelley sniffs indignantly. “You’d better be for real, because I was planning on showing you a very good time tomorrow, and if I hear one more comment about fifth grade me being obsessed with Abby Wambach I will absolutely lose my shit and send you home early.”

Hope holds her hands up in surrender again. “No more Abby jokes. Swear.” Before she can give up entirely, though, she glances up at the wall above her and mutters, “Goodnight, Abby, from Hope and Kelley.”

This time Kelley laughs and smacks her playfully, pulling their bodies closer together until Hope’s giggles trail off and her breaths become slow and shallow and she is no longer trying to squirm free from Kelley’s arms. She’s fast asleep, and Kelley wishes she could stay here forever.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ashlyn is saved from her own misery when her lawyer tells her that Ali isn’t going to post her bail.

Her initial reaction is exactly what she expected. (Fuck you too, Ali, she thinks to herself.) Yet somehow, when the first wave of anger drifts away, Ashlyn feels relieved. She knew Ali wouldn’t fork over her bail. She was far too hurt and angry and scared to pay that much money to buy her wife’s way out of jail. And when she thinks about it, Ashlyn doesn’t want her bail paid. She doesn’t want to face the outside world, the media, the parents of the kid she beat, her coaches, her wife. As selfish and cowardly as it is, she wants to stay in jail and just not be bothered by anything or anyone. She can eat three square meals a day and not have to talk to anyone. Misery is not being in jail. Misery is facing her problems.

When she was young, Ashlyn had often felt too small for the world she lived in. She was so little and everything else was so big, and she didn’t feel like she belonged. The idea that maybe she didn’t belong—that maybe she wasn’t meant to be here—brought so much anger to her heart that it would seep into every part of her body. She was miserable and didn’t care who knew. She wanted to know that she had a place in this world and even that seemed so trivial when nobody who loved her cared to stay. The world was vast and extraordinary, and out of 7 billion people Ashlyn didn’t dare allow herself to feel important or special or anything but ordinary. Eventually, she had learned to accept vulnerability. She learned to let herself be seen. When she started to doubt her purpose, she did what her grandmother had always done—name three things that she knew to be absolutely true.

_One, I am exactly where I am supposed to be._

_Two, I am loved endlessly and undeservedly by the most terribly kind woman in the whole world._

_Three, I cannot stay in this place forever._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

When Ali returns to the kitchen, Beckett secured in his crib for the night, Kyle has made his decision.

He stands at the kitchen sink with the twelve pack beside him, several bottles already emptied. Ali watches him pop the tab on another and pour it down the drain.

“You shouldn’t have this stuff in the house, you know,” he says reasonably, casting her a glance over his shoulder. “I am an alcoholic. At least have the decency to make it harder to access.”

She joins him and watches the amber liquid foam around the drain. “I’m proud of you, Kyle. You’re making the right choice.”

The silence settles over them like a warm blanket, the only sound the murmur of a small crowd still gathered outside and the beer flowing down the drain. Ali can feel her lids getting heavy and the exhaustion settle in her bones. She stifles the yawn rising in her chest and instead sighs heavily, leaning against Kyle.

“Stop that yawning. You’re making me tired.”

Ali cracks a smile, all she can manage. “I think I’m gonna go shower and head to bed. It’s been a looonngggg day.”

Kyle nods, an empathetic almost-smile on his lips. “Want me to sleep with you? I know you hate sleeping alone.”

Pausing at the landing at the bottom of the stairs, she hesitates for only a moment before nodding her agreement. “I’d like that.” She makes it up three steps before she looks back at her brother, who is now recycling the bottles. “You know, I’ve been through hell today, and you’re literally the only person who could make it better. Thank you for that.”

“To hell and back for my little sis,” he replies.


	14. save you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the encouraging messages you leave! If you get the urge to comment something negative (on anyone’s writing, on anyone’s social media, on anyone’s life) remember two things: 1) if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all; and 2) everybody behind a computer screen is just a normal person who lives and breathes and whose heart beats the exact same as yours. If you wouldn’t say it in person, don’t say it online. Also, remember that if you don’t like what I write, you don’t have to read—don’t comment your distaste. Also ALSO, remember that Ashlyn did not choose what happened to her before jumping to conclusions about Ali’s tough love for Kyle versus Ashlyn. Also ALSO ALSO, remember that what I write is NOT REAL. :)

The following days Hope spends in Georgia are more than she could have ever hoped for.

In the mornings, Kelley rises early. Hope previously thought her to be physically incapable of waking before at least 8:30 in the morning, but Kelley is always up at 6:30 sharp and cooking breakfast by 6:35. It’s part of their family routine, Hope comes to realize—where Karen prepares supper, Kelley has been in charge of breakfast since she was in high school. First she starts the coffee, then she throws open the kitchen windows wide to let in fresh air and sunshine. By the time Hope wakes around seven, the smell of whatever Kelley is cooking is wafting upstairs. She bakes cinnamon rolls and omelets and crepes and donuts and French toast and breakfast tacos, makes smoothies and orange juice and mimosas (because they’re the O’Haras, and why not drink before 8 am) and cold glasses of milk. Breakfast is over by 8:15, and Jerry heads off to either the gym or to work in the fields. Karen is off to quilting club or garden club or substitute teaching by 9, and Dan is at his store or on the tractor before the town awakes at 8:45.

As for Hope and Kelley, they spend their mornings working around the house, and there’s more domesticity than Hope is comfortable with. They do the dishes together after breakfast—Kelley washes, Hope dries, and they both put up the clean silverware and plates. The sheets get washed in the mornings and are hung out to dry in the sun on Karen’s clothesline. Hope sits side-by-side with Kelley on the porch or in the living room, and they fold baskets of laundry while listening to John Lennon or Willie Nelson or The Gatlin Brothers on vinyl, talking about soccer, laughing about their friends, having serious conversations about love and divorce and Kelley’s plans and what exactly they are. They prepare lunch for Jerry and Dan, who are normally both in the fields by eleven or so, and take the four-wheeler to deliver food to the men. By one or two in the afternoon, it’s too hot and sticky to do anything but be outside in the lake. Kelley lounges on a large raft in her bikini with her shades on, her hair piled into a bun, and a trashy tabloid to read. Hope and Jerry demolish the old dock—hard manual labor, which Hope has always appreciated—and haul its pieces to the bonfire pile for Peachtree City High before they return to the O’Hara farm and join Kelley in the lake, splashing her and disrupting her peaceful float as much as possible.

Karen always has an afternoon snack for them, like they’re in elementary school again. At three or four, she comes out to the lake in her Bermuda shorts, polo shirt, Birkenstocks, and golf visor with a tray of cold lemonade and peanut butter crackers. Jerry, Kelley, and Hope eagerly eat whatever she brings, hungry from their hours under the sun working hard. Hope and Jerry show her the plans Hope sketched for the new dock while Kelley reapplies suntan lotion, and then Karen excitedly asks Hope to come check out her garden. Supper doesn’t change much from what it was Monday night after Hope had arrived—there’s a huge spread every night, everything from chicken and pasta to steaks and fajitas and homemade pizzas. Kelley shows Hope how to work the hand-cranked ice cream maker on Wednesday night and they have homemade peach ice cream for dessert. Conversation is steady throughout the meals—soccer, Kelley’s baby, Erin’s case, politics, work, Jerry’s time in the Navy, Ashlyn Harris’s arrest on Monday afternoon. After the dishes are washed and leftovers are put away, Jerry and Hope venture back into the heat as the sun sets to work on the dock, sometimes outside until nearly midnight. Dan and Karen take glasses of sweet tea out onto the porch and sit in their rocking chairs while Kelley and Erin look through Pinterest and Better Homes and Gardens Magazine for nursery ideas.

By the time Thursday afternoon rolls around, Hope has a dreadful knot in the pit of her belly. Five days in Peachtree City suddenly seems like far too little time. It’s been just enough time for her to start to get too comfortable with the O’Haras and even Brandon, who has joined them for supper twice now, on Tuesday and Wednesday night both. It’s been just enough time for her to start dreaming subconsciously about this being her life—coming “home” to Georgia with Kelley when they have time off and spending day after day with her family, baking and cleaning and building and laughing and generally belonging. It’s been a long time since Hope felt like she belonged in someone’s family, and the fact that it has only taken four and a half days for her to feel like this could be hers is only a testament to how real this could all be if Hope were to let Kelley back in all the way.

Part of her feels like she and Kelley are just playing house and having a slumber party. They sleep in the same bed, but nothing happens after that first night other than a lot of kissing and cuddling and whispering long after dark. They play pranks on each other, snapping each other with dish towels and replacing hair spray with water and using the other’s toothbrush. They eat snacks together and talk about shallow things like Nike advertisements and who wore it best on the red carpet and Princess Kate and Ashlyn’s arrest and the best places to travel. She knows Kelley better than she has ever known anyone, but they still haven’t even scratched the surface on what all they need to talk about.

She still feels confused about what exactly is happening between them, even though sometimes it seems as though it is written clearly across Kelley’s freckled face: I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life making you smile just like you are smiling in this very moment. And it’s true—she loves Kelley. She is happy with Kelley, a good person with Kelley, more alive with Kelley. The past few days have found Hope in a better place than she’s been in since January, and Pinoe and Carli pick up on it when they Skype at night. The light is back in Hope’s eyes. She laughs more. It’s easier for her to be open, to be vulnerable, to allow herself to be seen. Kelley is sometimes in the background of those calls, stretched across her bed with a book that she’s read a thousand times, asking if that’s Carli and if it is, can Hope please tell her to brush up on her knowledge of J.K. Rowling before the next time they see each other. Hope wonders if she should still be confused about what she and Kelley are when it seems so transparent—Hope loves Kelley and Kelley loves Hope, what else is there to it but to love each other forever?

It’s only when she feels that pang of love and emotion for Kelley that Hope really wonders what they are. They’re best friends again, she can tell by the way they joke and their body language, like two people who have known each other for years and can pick up right where they left off every time. Kelley always manages to tangle her legs with Hope’s when they’re watching TV or lounging in the hammock out front or in bed, and there is nothing romantic about it, which is both comforting and confusing to Hope. The way they touch so casually and easily, like they have been bumping hips in the kitchen and getting caught up in bedsheets like this forever, throws Hope for a loop. It feels right, and she’s confused because it shouldn’t feel so right. It shouldn’t be so easy for her to open her heart back up to someone who so willingly tore it out in the first place. She hates hanging in this awkward stage of limbo, but she isn’t sure she can do much more than that right now.

Thursday afternoon brings a loud thunderstorm that hits right when Hope and Jerry are sanding the last board on the new dock. A few week’s worth of work, all completed in a few days’ time. Conveniently, Kelley has already scampered back up to the house with the claim that she would bring them their snacks today, staring at the sky as she traipsed grandly up the front steps. Hope doesn’t notice the rain at first, too sweaty and exhausted to feel the entirety of the storm as she runs the sander over the edge of the dock. She wipes the sweat from her brow and sighs heavily, staring out over the water. It’s only then that she notices the hazy sheet of rain coming toward them quickly from the grove of trees around the bend of the lake.

“We should head in,” Jerry observes slowly, shutting off the sander as he turns his cap backward and looks to where Hope’s gaze is fixed.

“YOU’RE GOING TO GET TRAPPED IN THE RAIN,” Kelley screams from the porch, where she’s sitting with the giant family dog—an old Irish Setter that is probably older than Kelley herself. He moves at the speed of a turtle with three legs and doesn’t hear anything, but he’s Kelley’s best friend. “RUN!!! IT’S A RACE!!!”

Jerry takes her advice and scoops up his toolbelt as he takes off sprinting toward the house, laughing and casting a quick glance over his shoulder to where Hope still stands. She watches another beat as a flash of lightning streaks across the sky, then grabs her hammer and follows suit as fast as her legs will take her. Nevertheless, she’s still soaked when she reaches the porch, where Kelley is waiting with a towel and a glass of peach tea.

“Not bad,” Kelley comments as Hope towels off. “For a goalkeeper,” she adds snarkily.

“Watch it, O’Hara. You may have a Hermann trophy, but you’re on my backline.” Hope takes the sweet tea from Kelley’s hand and collapses beside her on the steps. “You know what I forgot?”

Kelley shakes her head, oblivious to what is about to happen.

“Well I need you to come with me to get it. It’s at the dock.”

“No way. It’s raining and I just did my hair.” She shakes her head adamantly, catching on to Hope’s plan.

“Oh come on, I insist. The rain is letting up!” Hope is already on her feet, grabbing Kelley’s hands and forcing her to follow.

“No! No! No—Hope, I swear to God—Hope—HOPE!!!” Kelley shrieks as Hope pulls her past the overhang and into the blowing rain. “I just fixed my hair,” she says sadly, realizing that Hope has not really left anything at the dock.

Hope offers her a wide grin. “It looks better wet anyway.”

In that moment, Hope knows that she could spend every minute of every day for the rest of her life making Kelley laugh as hard as she does when she tries to be angry.

The thought terrifies her.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ashlyn’s misery returns when her bail is paid on Thursday morning.

She knows she should be happy about this—she’s not really cut out for jail, she has realized; she’s not near antagonistic or violent or assertive enough, and this is nothing like Orange Is The New Black—but she’s actually become quite accustomed to jail. There’s a structured routine. She doesn’t have to talk to anyone but her lawyer, and even he doesn’t talk much other than to assure her that he and Ali are working together to make sure that she gets all the help and support she needs. None of the inmates talk to her other than the group of women she sits at the lunch table with like it’s high school—LaVonne, who cut off her boyfriend’s penis when she found him in bed with another woman; Annette, who has long blonde and pink hair and was a prostitute; and Bridgett, who robbed a convenience store for drug money. (They’re all pretty cool, and Ashlyn thinks she’ll probably come see them even when she gets out of here.) Ali still hasn’t been to visit, but Kyle came to see her on Tuesday morning and promised he was taking care of Ali and Beckett. She hasn’t really expected to hear much on the Ali front, but according to the LaVonne her wife is “fine as hell” and Ashlyn should probably get her pen ready to sign divorce papers because good girls like Ali don’t stick around when there are problems.

(Ali is different than other good girls. At least, that’s what Ashlyn wants to believe.)

It’s Thursday morning when the bailiff opens the door to her cell and lets her know that her bail has been paid. Like alcohol burning in her belly, Ashlyn feels the misery and guilt and shame and fear bubbling back up inside her. She isn’t sure she trusts herself outside these walls, especially not with Ali or Beckett and most certainly not with the media. She’s got quite a sharp tongue when it comes to self-defense, and telling them to fuck themselves probably would not go over too well or do anything to help her case. She has no choice but to comply as she is led down the hallway, and she’s sent to the cafeteria to wait while the officers gather all her paperwork and personal belongings as well as figure out a plan to get her out of there as low-profile as possible.

(LaVonne hugs her when she finds out that Ashlyn is going home. “I knew that pretty wife of yours would come through, Harris. You’re one of them lucky ones.”)

Ashlyn stands by miserably as the same woman who gave her a very thorough patdown goes through her personal belongings. “One very nice Rolex watch. One very nice iPhone with a cracked screen. One black ponytail holder. One pair of Rayban sunglasses. One silver wedding band.” (Ashlyn snatches this one protectively and shoves it onto her ring finger.) “One pair of jeans. One white tee shirt. Two black Vans.” The woman watches as she changes into her own clothes from the orange jumpsuit—she stares a little too hard at the tattoos snaking up Ashlyn’s ribs, and Ashlyn squirms uncomfortably under her scrutinizing eyes—and then hands her a pen to sign for all her things. The pit in her stomach only grows more painful as she slowly follows the bailiff to the gates.

“You’re a free woman, Ms. Harris,” she says, pursing her lips.

(At least for now, Ashlyn thinks to herself.)

She stands out behind the jail, still fenced in and hidden from whoever could be waiting on the front lawn of the corrections facility. The last person she expects to see is Ali. She’s looking for anyone but Ali, in fact—Abby, maybe, or Christie, or even Crystal or a Spirit teammate—and she is so caught up in the idea that Ali is not going to bail her out that she looks straight over her head several times.

“So you want to get out of here or not?”

Ali’s voice snaps Ashlyn back to reality, and she’s fairly certain her jaw drops when her eyes land on Ali. She can only nod and get in the passenger seat without even a smile or hug for her wife.

The drive is silent at first as they pull out the back gates and circle around to the interstate, passing the front of the jail in the process. Ashlyn’s stomach drops at the sight. Other than a few reporters still trying to milk all they can out of the Ashlyn Harris story, there is also a crowd gathered with cardboard signs that say things like “STOP THE DOUBLE STANDARD” and “VIOLENCE KNOWS NO GENDER” and “RAY RICE. ADRIAN PETERSON. HOPE SOLO. BRITTNEY GRINER. DON’T LET ANOTHER ATHLETE JOIN THIS LIST.” Ali is silent, only casting a slightly hateful glance their way from beneath her sunglasses. Ashlyn squeezes her eyes shut and wishes she could have a redo.

“Why did you pay my bail?” Ashlyn finally asks in a small, meek voice. Her head is resting against the window, and doesn’t tear her eyes away from her reflection in the side mirror. She looks like hell.

Ali twists in the driver’s seat and stares at her. “Why did I pay your bail?!” (Ashlyn nods weakly. It is a bit of a dumb question.) “I have been trying for days to try and get you out of there, Ashlyn. You shouldn’t be in there. You don’t belong in a pin with criminals and dangerous people and murderers and drug addicts. You should be home with me. You should be getting help for post-traumatic stress, not locked up like you could lunge at someone at any given moment.”

There is a slight pause as Ashlyn stubbornly swallows her emotion and turns to look at Ali. “But I could hurt you. It could happen again. I could just snap and hurt you, Alex.”

At this, Ali shakes her head softly. “No. No, you couldn’t. Ashlyn, baby, you aren’t a criminal. You are not a violent person. You aren’t ever going to hurt anyone again. I know that; I can see it in your eyes. You just went through a major trauma and need some help. I swear to God I will get you the help you need, whether it’s here in D.C. or in Florida or in California or in Europe. You have to stop thinking of yourself as if you should be locked up, though. It would kill me for you to stay in jail another day.”

“If that’s the truth—if you aren’t even a little bit scared of me—then why didn’t you pay my bail sooner?” Ashlyn asks softly. Her tone is not hateful or mean or accusing. She sounds hurt.

Ali hesitates. She can’t say that she isn’t a little bit scared of what Ashlyn, when threatened, is capable of; she also can’t say that she doesn’t feel a little bit responsible for what happened in Annapolis. Her conscience won’t allow her to lie to Ashlyn, especially right now, so she takes a deep breath and tells the truth. “I was a little bit scared, Ash. At first I was terrified. I’ve never seen you so much as lay a hand on someone else, even if they’ve taken me out in a game or offended someone you love or lashed out at you. It was terrible of me to not come visit you, but I decided on Monday that I was going to get you out of there if I had to empty my life savings and pledge allegiance to American Airlines for the rest of my life. I have been making phone calls and trying to get you home since early Tuesday morning. They didn’t want to let you go. The money wasn’t the issue, lack of trying wasn’t the issue—they were afraid you would try to hurt yourself if you left jail. Please understand that I have spent every minute of every day trying to get you back to me.”

She pauses briefly as she takes the exit toward Capitol Hill. “Did you really think I was so horrible that I wouldn’t be working my ass off to get you out of there?” Her every sentence drips with confusion and hurt. “Ashlyn, I’m sorry if you felt that way, but I only ever wanted you back with me. I’ve been taking it out on everyone, Kyle and Jill and everyone who I come across—this anger that I’m feeling because I wish I could take this pain away from you and carry it all myself. If I could take every ounce of hurt you are carrying I would. I know that you don’t want me to have to take it, but I swear that if I could I would make sure you were never hurt again.”

“I didn’t think you were that horrible,” Ash mumbles, “I thought I was that horrible. I thought you wouldn’t want to be with someone so wicked anymore.”

Horror crosses Ali’s face. “I will always want to be with you, baby.”

They fall into a heavy silence, and Ali continues on toward their townhouse. She can’t help but think about why Ashlyn would doubt the love she has for her—it makes sense, when Ali puts it into perspective. There was a time that Ali had made her to believe that she wasn’t in love with her. She had told her she never had been and never would be in love with her. She had been so confused about who she was that her confusion had pushed Ashlyn away completely. At that time, she HAD been horrible. Sure, she hadn’t meant to be awful, but she had been, and even if they are happy and in love now, she still sometimes forgets that words can never be taken back or forgotten. Once they’re out there, they can only be forgiven.

“Ashlyn.”

Her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, Ashlyn nods to say that she’s listening.

“I’m so sorry that those things I said will always be in the back of your mind making you doubt if I love you. Because I do. I would give my life to make sure you were always happy and loved and protected. It scares me, how much I love you. I didn’t know I was capable of so much love. You make me so proud every day.” Ali pauses and swallows the lump in her throat. “I am so, so sorry.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“What time does your flight leave in the morning?”

Hope glances up from packing her duffle bag and sees Kelley standing in the doorway to the bathroom with her hair twisted into a towel atop her head and mascara streaked down her face from her shower. She smiles softly.

“Leave Atlanta at 5:40 in the morning, change planes in Dallas, land in Seattle at 11. I’ll be back in time for practice.”

Kelley bends over at the waist to let the towel fall off her head and sprays in detangler. “So your coach is completely fine with you missing practice for five days and showing up before your next game in playoffs?” She sounds incredulous.

“Well, I hate to pull this card, but I am Hope Solo,” Hope grins. “She knows I can take care of myself and my body and my workout if I’m out of town, and I’ll be ready to play again come Sunday at 4 o’clock.”

“You haven’t been taking care of your body,” she responds matter-of-factly. “You’ve been eating fattening Southern meals and working really hard under the sun for most of the day.”

Hope laughs—the genuine, head-thrown-back laugh that has become part of her lately; the laugh that sounds like bells ringing and makes Kelley’s stomach do front flips—and zips her bag shut. “I’ll be ready to play, Kell. Don’t you worry about me.”

“Am I allowed to worry about you?”

“What do you mean, are you allowed to worry about me. Of course you can worry about me. There’s no rule against it.”

“I mean, is it okay with you that I still worry about you.”

Confusion settles in Hope’s eyes. “Yes, Kelley. I don’t know why you would worry about me, but you can if you want. It’s a free country.”

Hope knows what Kelley is really talking about, pushing for a real heart-to-heart conversation before she leaves in the morning. Though Hope knows it needs to happen, she doesn’t want to ruin her last night in Georgia with tears and quiet confessions and words she knows won’t mean a thing. She wants to hold Kelley all night, not sleep in Erin’s room, and press kisses to her warm, sweet-smelling hair, trace the freckles on her back into constellations, listen to her giggle and speculate and sigh in her sleep. A long talk about what they are—what they are doing—what Kelley is going to do—what Hope will do…would just ruin what they’ve had going. (Hope also knows that Kelley won’t drop this without a fight. She just prays she won’t do it over dinner.)

As it turns out, Kelley doesn’t have to bring it up during dinner. Karen does that for her. Hope is in the middle of her second plate of chicken parmesan when Karen says plainly, “So how often should we expect you to be back, Hope?”

Hope chokes on the bite of roll in her mouth and spends the next two minutes coughing and spitting while Kelley whacks her between the shoulder blades with the heel of her hand, encouraging her to “cough it up.” When she can finally breathe enough to get a drink of water, she downs it in under six seconds and Erin excuses herself from the table to refill the glass. Hope doesn’t know why she was caught so off-guard. Kelley and her mom are quite nearly the same person—Kelley is more outgoing and less Southern and more “Kelley” and less homemaker and less formal, but otherwise they’re both blunt, funloving, simplistic, and exuberant. If she had expected this from Kelley, she might as well expect it from Karen as well.

Kelley drops her fork and smiles widely at Hope. “That is a great question, Mom! How often should I expect to see you, Hope Solo?”

There is a bit of clattering around as Hope pushes the remaining chicken around on her china plate and stumbles over her words for a solid twenty seconds. “I mean—I uh—I’m…”

“What exactly are you two, anyway—best friends or girlfriends?” Jerry asks, catching Hope off guard again.

Thankfully she doesn’t choke this time.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ashlyn falls asleep nearly as soon as they arrive home.

Not that Ali’s surprised or even taken aback by it, but Ashlyn goes upstairs, cuddles Beckett for a few minutes, and then says she’s going to change clothes, and Ali finds her ten minutes later with her shirt off and her belt undone but passed out across the bed, not even under the blankets.

With a tired sigh, Ali dares to undress Ashlyn, knowing she won’t wake up—Ash sleeps like a rock—and pulls her shoes off. She manages to even get a giant tee shirt over her head and tuck the sheets in around her before closing the curtains and shutting the door almost all the way. For as tired as she is, she has never Ashlyn look so exhausted—not after surgery, not after her car wreck, not when Beckett was a horrible six-month-old who would not sleep, not when she had just finished a double day of training with Dawn and HAO, not when she had just played a game and came out on the other side with a win that was hard-earned—and knows she should let Ash sleep. In fact, it’s a good thing that she’s sleeping. Ali knows she hasn’t had much rest at all since Saturday night.

Downstairs, Kyle and Crystal are doing all the things that Ali should have been doing all week—writing thank you notes, folding laundry, vacuuming, dusting, moving clothes from the washer to the dryer, doing the dishes that had piled into a mountain in the sink, cleaning out all the expired food from the fridge (which Ashlyn normally did once every two weeks.) They have the whole first floor looking like it’s straight from HGTV. Ali nearly cries.

“You two don’t have to do this. Go get lunch on me,” she says, thumbing through her wallet and finding some cash.

Kyle turns off the vacuum and nods. “Okay, we can get lunch. What do you want; we’ll bring something back for you and Ash.”

Ali shakes her head. “I’m not really hungry and Ash is asleep.”

“You need to eat something,” Crystal insists, pushing up the sleeves of her baseball shirt. “We can bring back a pizza or even something from like the food trucks!”

They are off a few minutes later to pick up Shake Shack for everyone, and Kyle is more than thrilled that he’s been instructed to drive Ashlyn’s Jeep. Ali watches them leave through the front window before she falls onto the couch in an exhausted heap. Her eyes flicker for a few seconds before they settle on the framed photo just above the mantle—she and Ashlyn stand at the World Cup, their eyes shining with disbelief and excitement and tears and pure love for the game & each other. There’s a shiny new engagement ring on Ali’s finger, and Ashlyn looks both cocky and knocked off her feet—there was absolutely no way she would ever feel this good, this on-top-of-the-world again. Their arms are slung around each other, and on either side of them stand the most important people in their lives—Kyle is hip-to-hip with Ashlyn, and Ashlyn’s grandma smiles kindly beside Ali. Ali can remember feeling invincible that day after achieving something most people only ever dream about, after scoring a penalty kick in Vancouver, after spending six weeks with the people she had come to call “home,” after knowing she was going to spend the rest of her life with the one person in the world she didn’t want to ever have to live without. What a day it had been.

Things have changed now, Ali knows, because after World Cup highs and engagements and weddings and gold medals and Halls of Fame and Olympic buzz, things have to go back to normal. Her mom called those times a “year long honeymoon” because it had been pure bliss for twelve months. It had felt like an endless summer. There were fireworks almost every night—red white and blue exploding in the sky just for them—and they’d felt as though the world was theirs. They had won game after game; Hope recorded shutout after shutout; Jill had nothing to say in team meetings that normally turned into hours of hype and discussion. The World Cup win came with not only an engagement ring, but also months of media and speaking engagements and sponsorships and jetting across the country. Ali would go to bed in New York and wake up in Los Angeles. Then came a wedding—a wedding so beautiful and so perfect and so lovely that Ali still couldn’t believe it was hers—and a baby. The excitement and reasons to be happy never ended. Where one thing ended, another filled its place. For a solid year, there were no reasons to be anything but indescribably, terribly happy.

If that was a year long honeymoon, Ali wonders what this is—this year that has gone by so quickly and so slowly all at once. It feels so late so soon. A year of good was followed by a hard year, one of trial and heartache and worry and exhaustion. After Beckett was born and Ashlyn was okay, Ali thought maybe bad things were done happening for a little while. Instead, she and Ash had fought more in the last year than they had in their whole relationship put together—and over stupid things like how the toilet paper roll hangs and if you should use hot or cold water to brush your teeth. The national team had lost Abby, Boxxy, and Christie to retirement, and Jill was struggling with the idea of calling up new talent to the team. Kelley disappeared for a few months. Ashlyn and Hope were suddenly neck-and-neck for the spot of number one goalkeeper, which made Ash anxious and testy and short-tempered. Ali thought having another baby would make things happier again, so they tried a few times with no success before giving up defeatedly. Just when things started to look up again, some random man had brought a gun to a soccer game and shot a bunch of innocent people for no reason.

The irony of the past two years almost makes Ali laugh out loud. She hears the sound come from her throat, dry and thick and harsh. Her eyes burn as she blinks furiously, and she tries to swallow the bitter anger rising in her chest. She doesn’t wipe away the hot tears that roll down her cheeks and settle in the slope of her jaw, nor does she refrain from screaming hoarsely into a pillow that this isn’t fair. (It isn’t fair. She and Ashlyn were supposed to get their happily ever after. After the hell they had gone through to be together, they should have gotten their happily ever after. They were supposed to have four little Krieger-Harris babies they could play soccer with and take surfing and teach to be brilliant humans and bake blueberry streusel muffins with. They weren’t supposed to be in whatever this place is, this place of darkness and sadness and confusion.)

Everything changes in a day.


	15. nothing else matters.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love isn't enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there is probably one more chapter after this one, followed by an epilogue for Ali and Ashlyn and an epilogue for Hope and Kelley. Can't wait to see how many of you hate this chapter! Enough of my selfish ego and passive aggression—a huge thank you to those of you who have inspired me to keep writing and been so encouraging! You are the reason I do what I do! I hope this satisfies those of you who believe that Ali is selfish and doesn’t care for Ashlyn—it was never my intention to portray her as such. I was just trying to capture all the confusion and hurt that she felt when this all happened, and it apparently was misinterpreted. That being said, I have absolutely loved writing for you guys. Here is the beginning of the grand finale.

Ashlyn wakes up screaming.

Like she has the past four nights, Ashlyn wakes up in the middle of the night screaming. She isn’t sure if it’s the images inside her mind—her nightmare—that wakes her or if it’s the sound of her own raspy, shrill shriek, but she finds herself jolting out of her deep slumber and sitting straight up in bed. It’s the same flashback that has awoken her every night since Saturday: the same ten or fifteen seconds of the initial gunshots ringing out, Ashlyn unable to comprehend what is happening until she feels a rough shoulder against her own and sees Heather streaking past her in a blur, finally coming down atop the gunman with a final shot—and she still just stands there, her jaw hanging open and feet anchored in place until Cheney grabs her by the wrist and pulls her over to where HAO and the man landed.

Like she has the past four nights, Ashlyn is fully prepared to calm herself down. She has it down almost to a science now. After she jolts out of her sleep with that same blood-curdling, murderous scream, she squeezes her eyes shut for ten seconds and takes the deep yoga breaths that she’s learned from years of training with the national team. With her eyes closed and her breathing regulating, she reminds herself of three things that are absolutely true:

_One, I watched one of my best friends in the world get shot._

_Two, the man who shot my friend is very bad._

_Three, the very bad man who shot my friend cannot hurt me anymore._

Then she opens her eyes slowly and looks around to remind herself that she is not at the Plex, she is not in any danger, she is not a danger to anyone else. It takes a minute or two, but her heart rate eventually returns to normal and she can breathe again without feeling like someone is stacking bricks on top of her chest. This is the routine she has developed over the past few nights, and she’s been able to calm herself down but never fall back asleep.

She forgets that, unlike the past four nights, she isn’t alone.

The scream has only just left Ashlyn’s chest when Ali is sitting up too, her warm hands pressed to the curve of Ash’s spine and the sleeves of her sweatshirt pushed up her elbows. She doesn’t have to speak empty words or mutter something like “it’s okay” because it’s not. All she has to do is be there. That’s all it takes to make Ashlyn lose it completely, to break down in Ali’s arms and let herself be held while she weeps. It’s funny, Ash thinks, how the tables turn so quickly. She is used to being Ali’s protector, to holding her while she fumes or cries or laughs so hard she almost falls over, to reassuring her that she’s safe, to promising her that she’s got her. Now Ali has been faced with being strong for her. At first, they fit together a bit awkwardly—Ashlyn is always the big spoon, her long arms wrapped around Ali protectively. Not only does she have several inches on Ali, she also has longer limbs and a more solid chest. With only a bit of squirming, though, they are pressed together like they always are, but with Ali holding Ashlyn close against her chest and stroking her hair gently.

Ali’s arms start to feel more like home as Ashlyn’s tears subside. Neither has spoken yet, but words aren’t needed to convey what they are both feeling—Ashlyn is scared, tired, sad, heavy; Ali wants so badly to be able to heal that hurt and it’s killing her that she can't do anything but hold her and kiss her and try to say without speaking that she loves her and is so sorry. Ali is warm—her arms in her sweatshirt, her bare thighs, her socked feet, her soft hands—and Ashlyn realizes just how much she missed all the little things about Ali while she was in jail. She has missed the sleepy half-lidded way Ali looks at her when it’s dark and her eyes swirl cinnamon in the moonlight, how she puts off warmth like a space heater beneath the sheets, the curve of her mouth bathed in the silver glow of night. (Ali has missed how Ashlyn’s hands are always cold, how she subconsciously pulls her closer in her sleep, how her lips always part softly when she dreams.)

“You want to talk about it?”

When Ali finally speaks, her voice is no more than a whisper. She breathes the words into the back of Ashlyn’s head, her freshly washed hair still damp and smelling like a salon. Had she not felt the stickiness of Ali’s words pressed to her scalp, Ashlyn might have missed the question.

“Can you just hold me a little longer?” Ashlyn’s response is just as quiet, her sweet voice dripping with an exhaustion that she feels down to her bones. Ali nods wordlessly and wraps her arms a little tighter around Ash’s waist.

A few more silent minutes pass, and Ashlyn assumes that Ali has fallen asleep by the soft, sighing breaths she feels against her neck. The panic has left her body, though the exhaustion remains, and for a second she can feel herself relax completely for the first time in a long time.

“I should have been there to hold you the past few nights,” Ali mumbles into Ashlyn’s shoulder, her every word dripping with regret and dread.

Ashlyn turns around to face her. “Don’t say that, Alex. You were scared and confused and hurt. I was where I should have been.”

“I may have been scared and confused and hurt, but you were too, Ashlyn. You saw things that night that I can only imagine, and I can’t even fathom how awful that must have been. There had to have been something I could have done to get you out of there sooner. Instead I was selfish and let you sit in that horrible place for a few days too many. I let my own feelings influence what I knew to be right. I know I was working to get you out of there, but I should have tried harder.” Ali doesn’t want to cry, knowing it will come off as a guilt trip, but she can feel the tears burning at the back of her eyes and the lump rising in her throat. She quickly turns away before Ashlyn can see her.

Maybe it’s because Ali herself doesn’t understand it, but she doesn’t expect Ashlyn to even try to get where she was coming. She feels selfish and used up and loathes how she will fight for herself before she fights for others. No decent person would let their PTSD-stricken wife sit in a jail for three days, no matter how hard the defense was fighting for her to stay there. She should have fought harder…offered up more money…demanded that they release her so she could get the help she wouldn’t get in prison. Sure, she had fought for her, but she was also fighting for herself, and the most wicked, despicable part of Ali had been clawing its way to the surface, telling her that she could have it both ways—she could fight for Ashlyn and she could fight for her own insecurity and hurt. Once upon a time, Ali had thought herself to be brave and courageous and generous—the kind of person who would give her whole life to make sure others were happy and loved and cared for. Maybe she was that kind of person then, but this version of herself was one that Ali hated. She hated who she was when she felt threatened, always ready to jump into defense mode and do everything in her power to make sure she didn’t get hurt.

Selfish aggression is a quality in herself that Ali finds to be deplorable. Unthreatened, Ali has a true servant’s heart. She loves to see other people happy, to watch them achieve success, to see the passion in their eyes when their dreams come true. Oftentimes she will put others’ happiness above her own, wanting only for them to know true joy. (Ashlyn loves how willingly Ali gives her own heart to see those she loves so full of happiness. It is one of the most beautiful things in the world.) But when Ali is scared, she fights for herself. She has known enough pain and fear in her world that she cannot fathom having to feel it again. Even if she tries her absolute hardest to bury that selfish fight, she can’t dig a grave deep enough to hide it forever. She ends up fighting like hell for her own heart, and people always end up getting hurt. It’s happened before, and it almost cost her Ashlyn forever. When she can’t even understand this herself, she can’t expect Ashlyn to get it either.

“Hey.” Ashlyn swipes her thumb gently over Ali’s cheekbones and presses a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose. “No tears. You’re okay, baby. I’m okay and I’m home now.”

“I should have tried harder and done more,” Ali says shakily, her voice cracking as she speaks.

She shakes her head, and for the first time in days a soft grin reaches her lips. “Who’s the broken one here, Al?”

“I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be taking care of you. I mean, I swore that I would take care of you. I vowed that I would always be on your side, but I’ve been on my own side for a while now. I broke our vows, Ashlyn, and you have suffered because of it—again.”

Ashlyn is suddenly fighting the urge to melt into Ali completely and kiss away all her worries and doubts. She moves so that she is holding Ali instead of Ali holding her. “Stop apologizing, Alex. I love you, and I want to see you believe in yourself and your heart again. You don’t have to take care of me. In fact, I like taking care of you. It makes me feel a little bit more normal, like I’m me again. I like to feel needed. But remember that people need people. You are fierce and strong and brave. You are brilliant and courageous and kind. You don’t have to be everything all the time, though, Ali.”

“I want to take care of you,” Ali insists stubbornly. “You take care of me way too much, and all this is my fault anyway.”

“It is not your fault,” she counters sharply. “You didn’t bring a gun to a soccer field and shoot randomly into a crowd. You didn’t force me to hit that kid on Monday. You didn’t do anything, Ali, except protect yourself. And I get that. It’s your coping mechanism. Some people run, some people fight, and you’re a fighter. You should never have to apologize for who you are or explain yourself. It’s going to kill me if you keep blaming yourself for what’s happening. Control what you can, Alex, but don’t try to control what you can’t.”

Ali hates that this has flipped around so quickly. She doesn’t want Ashlyn to have to take care of her. She is supposed to be taking care of her, not the other way around. She wants her wife to know that she loves her and will advocate for her forever. Instead, she is weak and started crying, and Ashlyn has ended up feeling sorry for her again.

“God, I wish I wasn’t so damn weak,” she whispers feebly, burrowing further into Ashlyn’s chest.

“You aren’t weak,” Ashlyn reminds her. “Like I said, this is helping me. I need to feel normal again, and you needing me when you’ve been so strong for so long is really good for me. I’m going to get the help I need, and you’re going to be there. I know you will. Just remember that nobody else sees this as your pity party.”

With a weak nod, Ali tries to stop feeling like she’s a failure of a human being. She sighs heavily and moves out of Ash’s arms. “Enough about me. Tell me about what’s waking you up.”

A smile breaks across Ashlyn’s face. She feels like she’s finally getting her old life back. What Ali is about to hear is going to be hard to say and hard to hear, but Ashlyn knows better than anyone that talking—having the hard conversations—is something she’s going to have to do to both get herself back and to make Ali feel like herself again. It’s going to hurt to say, but if pain is what it takes for Ali to be able to help her and fight for her, she’ll do it. And if hearing things that she doesn’t want to hear is what it takes for Ashlyn to feel like she’s not alone, Ali will listen for another hundred years.

For the first time in weeks, Ashlyn doesn’t dream.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“What the hell was that, Kelley?”

Hope’s words come out angrier than she intended, but her face is hot with embarrassment and she can’t help but feel like she’s been taken advantage of.

Kelley looks up innocently from where she’s slipping on her old Stanford hoodie before bed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you need to calm down.”

(A poor move on her part. She knows it doesn’t go well when Hope is told to calm down.)

“That ambush, Kelley! Your mom asked a question and you took complete advantage of the situation by bringing up something I’m not sure of yet.”

It’s Kelley’s turn to feel her temper rising. “You aren’t sure of us yet, Hope? Is that why you asked to come spend the week with me? Is that why you slept with me and told me you loved me and held me every night and kissed me and built my family a new dock and attached yourself to my family? Because that’s not fair, Hope, and you know it. I have had a hard time this week knowing that I hurt you, and you don’t get to come in here and stomp all over my heart like that.”

“That’s not the point, Kelley! You opened the door for them to ask questions that we haven’t discussed!”

“I’ve been trying to bring it up all fucking week! You dance around it instead of facing it, like you do with everything! Man up and have the hard conversations, Hope!” Kelley is yelling now, and her shouts bring Karen to the door with a concerned look on her face.

Her tone is firm as she reprimands her daughter. “Watch your mouth, missy. And lower your voice. The whole house doesn’t need to know your business.” And with that, she walks away and shuts the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

Hope lowers her voice to a hiss and brings her face inches from Kelley’s to make a point. “You want to do this now, right before I leave? Fine. We’ll do it now. Let’s discuss. Let’s ruin our last night together and fight right now.”

“You come here and say you love me, and then you say you aren’t sure of what we are,” Kelley says, her voice high-pitched like it always is before she cries. “You’re confusing me and I don’t know what to think about all this.”

“Maybe because I’m confused, Kelley! I don’t know how to make this any more clear to you when I don’t get it either! All I know is that I do love you, and I do enjoy being around you, and I do want to see you, and I do want to see you succeed in life. I don’t know anything else, but you know what I do know? I love you. It’s a funny thing, Kelley, because people say ‘I love you’ a thousand different ways, but I love you, and I know I do because I want to remind you to buckle your seatbelt every time you get in a car and drive the speed limit and don’t text while you drive. I know because when there’s rain in the forecast I want to remind you to grab your umbrella, and when it’s cold, I want to tell you to bring a jacket. I know I love you because I always catch myself warning you to be careful when you aren’t with me. I know that I love you because you’re all I think about at night when I am cold and tired and I just want to go to sleep. I love you, Kelley, and I want that to be all that matters but it isn’t.”

There is a long silence as Hope stands in front of Kelley, her chest heaving with every breath and eyes still sharp and icy. Neither quite knows what to say. Hope turns away first, spinning to finish throwing things back into her duffle bag. Her cheeks are still hot with anger and emotions that she can’t quite name. She has always had a hard time with admitting her feelings, and this is no different. Her heart is now on the line, and it’s Kelley’s to take or destroy. She has been in this place before, offering her heart to Kelley, and it didn’t end well. It’s easier to set herself up for failure than to experience the danger of genuine, wide-eyed, heart-in-throat hope. It hurts less to know that rejection is coming than to believe that something good is happening and have to face rejection instead.

“That’s what love is, I guess,” Kelley says quietly, her eyes flickering between Hope and the copy of The Chronicles of Narnia that they have been dissecting all week. Suddenly she grabs the book and waves it in the air, her eyes alight like a bulb has gone off in her head. “When you love someone, you can’t do anything without wishing the other was there to experience it too,” she adds in a mumble, flipping through the copy with a seriousness and ferocity that Hope has rarely seen. She thumbs through the pages until she finds what she is looking for and hands it to Hope, her finger planted firmly on the line that they have tried and tried to understand together but haven’t been able to agree on its interpretation.

_But first, remember, remember, remember the signs. Say them to yourself when you wake in the morning and when you lie down at night, and when you wake in the middle of the night. And whatever strange things may happen to you, let nothing turn your mind from following the signs. And secondly, I give you a warning. Here on the mountain I have spoken to you clearly: I will not often do so down in Narnia. Here on the mountain the air is clear and your mind is clear; as you drop down into Narnia, the air will thicken. Take great care that it does not confuse your mind. And the signs which you have learned here will not look as you expect them to look when you meet them there. That is why it is so important to know them by heart and pay attention to appearances. Remember the signs and believe the signs. Nothing else matters._

For as much as Kelley and Hope can agree on most of C.S. Lewis’s not-so-subtle references and interpret every confusion to make sense, they have not been able to find common ground on this one passage. Hope can see a lot of Kelley’s side of things—spiritual, philosophical, and deep-seeded in the way she has grown up knowing true love and happiness, yet still battled confusion and doubt. The way Kelley sees things always ties back to God, the way C.S. Lewis meant them to. Sometimes Hope can squeeze her eyes shut and see them Kelley’s way—that Aslan is like the God Kelley loves and trusts, wanting only to protect and save those who believe in Him and in the good of the world, ready to give up everything for people who, like Edmund, wander from where they will know life; that both all the good and the bad of the universe rests in every human soul, and it is a choice between the light and the darkness. She sees the signs as more of a predestined fate, and people always are who they were made to be. Kelley will debate for hours over the significance of a God, and it always ends in her crying that she doesn’t want Hope to experience eternity without life.

“Remember the signs and believe the signs, Hope. Nothing else matters.” Kelley’s pointer finger stays jammed onto the page, right on top of the pink highlighter. “Doesn’t it make sense now?! Remember, remember, remember the signs. Let nothing turn your mind from following the signs!”

Hope is still waiting for something to click on like a switch in her head as Kelley waves the book around and rambles on and on about the signs.

“I think we didn’t know how to interpret this because we didn’t know what the signs were, but it’s suddenly like a frickin’ semi truck just hit me in the head.” Kelley makes a sound that Hope assumes is her getting flattened by the eighteen-wheeler. “But the signs, Hope, THE SIGNS,” she points emphatically at the book, “are not here, they’re right here—“ (She jabs herself in the chest even more emphatically) “—AND WE HAVE BEEN MISSING THEM ALL ALONG.”

The same enthusiastic realization that hit Kelley has not hit Hope. She wonders what she’s missing that is apparently right in front of her.

“Hope, we have been looking in the book for all the signs. We didn’t see them clearly, or we couldn’t agree on them at least—were the signs in Aslan, or were they in the Pevensies?—and we missed them because the signs aren’t written on a page or even in words. The signs are in us. The signs are in the way we read, Hope! The signs are the emotions we feel when we read these books and the choices we make and the way we love. The signs, Hope…they aren’t written out for us, and they never will be. The signs are in us, and it’s up to us to see them. Nobody else can tell us what the signs are because they’re different for everyone. But we have to remember them and believe them and remind ourselves what they are—say them when we wake up in the morning and when we can’t sleep at night and when we wake up at three o’clock dawn.”

Kelley pauses for a long, deep breath so she can keep talking. Hope remains slack-jawed as she comes to understand what she’s hearing. “So if you were to ask me what the signs were, I would say this: when I am walking down the street and I see a homeless person, I give them money and a meal because I don’t know everyone’s story. When I watch oppression and discrimination and violence and poverty unfold before my eyes, I will not ignore the way my heart begs me to hold on to what is good and flee from what is evil. When I have an opportunity to help others, I will take it not because I want the recognition but because I know how hard it can be when life continues to kick you down every single time you get up. And when I think of you and all the happiness and life you have given me, I will not force you out of my mind. I will always show love and kindness and compassion. I will never side with oppression of any sort. I will choose life because no matter what it throws at me these are the signs. So yes, there are signs in everything we do—in the books we read, in the things we believe, in the people we love—but nobody else can tell you what those signs are. It’s up to you to follow them.”

Now she is out of breath, her face flushed from the excitement of figuring things out. She confidently smiles at Hope and nods once. “That’s what I think.”

Hope can suddenly see it all. Her tunnel vision is gone and light has flooded her mind. She sees clearly all the signs—all the signs that she has overlooked for so long. The unanswerable question has been answered, and she can see the truth now. She can see that the signs are hidden in the little things—in the way she holds doors open for people, in the way she helps the elderly cross the road or into restaurants, in the way she looks out for her team, in the way her mind always sighs and wishes Kelley were there to experience the hike or the view from the fishing boat or the smell of the freshly mowed field. Her heart lurches a bit as she realizes that the signs are also in her hurt—in the way her chest aches at the thought of love, in the way her eyes burn when she remembers how much love she once had in her life, in the way she can’t breathe when she thinks about having to go through that hurt again.

She feels the familiar burn at the back of her eyes and lump in her throat. Maybe if the signs had been clear sooner, she wouldn’t have found herself here, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Maybe the signs would be different today if she had seen them sooner. Now that she sees the signs and believes them, it makes leaving a lot harder. It couldn’t be any more certain to her that she loves Kelley—she is in love with Kelley, and she might always be. But she recognizes the signs.

Kelley sees them too.

“Hope?” she says, that high-pitched voice nothing more than a whisper.

With that, Kelley collapses into Hope’s arms and beings to weep.

Hope wishes there were something she could say to change things, but her heart hurts the exact same. She feels herself breaking every time Kelley shakes in her arms. “I love you, Kelley. I love you so much it hurts. But sometimes, love just isn’t enough.”

“But it was,” Kelley insists with her voice trembling. “It was enough for us, Hope. We had love and that was it, and for a while we were happy.”

“You want that? You want that life back? We did have love, Kelley, and it wasn’t enough. If love were enough we would still be…we’d be together. If love were enough none of this horrible stuff would have ever happened. But it’s not. Love is everything, Kelley, and it’s the foundation of everything, but it will never be enough to make a wrong a right. Love can do a lot of things, but it can’t take things back or change them. It can only blind you to what it is you were hurt by. I want nothing more than to be yours again, Kell. For months it has been all I have thought about. Now I am here and you could be mine again, and suddenly the signs are so clear. I love you so much. I love you and it’s written across my heart and my eyes forever, but I can’t make myself follow a sign that isn’t there.

“I’m in no place to love you the way you should be loved, Kelley. It wasn’t until I came here, to you and to your family, that I even knew I was capable of love. I have only just learned to love again, and you deserve so much more than me learning how to love. One day I pray I can love you the way you should be loved, but I can’t right now. I love you, but I can’t love you right now. I want to be able to give you everything you deserve, and I’m just not to that place yet. I’m remembering the signs and believing them, Kell, even though I really want them to be wrong. I’m having a really hard time believing that this sign is really the best one for my life, but I have to do it. I have to believe that everything happens for a reason.”

Kelley cries for a few more minutes, heartbreaking, soft sobs that make Hope’s stomach do flips because this is her fault, before she falls into an exhausted heap on her bed. “Will you at least hold me before you go?”

Hope would hold Kelley for a thousand years if it meant she didn’t have to leave.


	16. whatever is left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The time jumps around a bit between Ali/Ashlyn and Hope/Kelley, but I hope it isn’t too hard to follow. Also, holy long chapter. You’re welcome :)

Kelley has never quite learned how to say goodbye.

After all this time, she can’t say she’s much better at it than she was as a small girl who was terrified to go out in a big world where she was certain she would get lost and become just another face.

She has been standing in this exact spot dozens, maybe hundreds, of times. This exact airport is the one her parents dropped her off at when she was young—still a child at the tender age of 13—with a baseball hat, a backpack, a passport, and a suitcase that probably weighed more than she did so she could take a flight to her first youth national team tournament in London. A few years later, she had stood in this exact spot with her baseball hat, backpack, and suitcase that was twenty pounds over the weight limit—she was moving across the country to play soccer at Stanford. They had sent her off to the Olympics here, the World Cup here, weddings here. They had stood in this very place and watched her wave over her shoulder as she jogged to her terminal. Sometimes it feels as though Kelley grew up in this airport. This has been the starting point for so many defining moments in her life, yet she cannot embrace what airports mean.

Leaving has always been a hard concept for Kelley to grasp. No matter how many times she has gone through the exact same checkpoints, cast the same confident smile over her shoulder, hurried along to make her flight to better things…it does not get any easier. She doesn’t like the way her chest grows heavy when she has to let go of what she has, even if it’s for something greater. The only way she can explain it is that she gets attached to people and places. For as long as she can remember, she has loved the water. Having to leave the ocean—its vastness, its beauty, its mystery—always makes her stomach drop and her jaw ache. How does one say goodbye to something it doesn’t yet understand?

Saying goodbye to Hope is like saying goodbye to the ocean.

They stand outside the terminal in the early hours of the morning before the sun is awake. In silence, Kelley helps Hope unload her bag and gather up her carryons. While Hope slips her boarding passes into her wallet for safekeeping, Kelley attempts to push down the feeling of regret and dread that has formed a home in the pit of her stomach. She shuts the back door with a hearty slam and turns to face the terminal, planting her hands on her hips determinedly.

“So this is it, then,” Hope says softly, heaving the strap of her duffle bag higher on her shoulder. In the dark of the morning, Kelley can still make out the icy blue of her eyes and the slope of her jaw. Bathed in the harsh overhead lighting, she can also see the way her jaw tightens the way it always does when she is trying to maintain her composure. “Thank you for having me this week, Kell. I truly could not have asked for more.”

Kelley manages a small smile. “I had fun, Hope, even if this isn’t how I imagined sending you off to Seattle.”

Somehow, Hope can break into a tiny grin too. “I love you. I hope you never forget that. You mean the world to me. I wish I could give you what you need.” She inhales sharply and looks away before Kelley can see the tears that have spilled over onto her cheekbones. “Maybe someday this won’t be the way we say goodbye. I just need some time to figure this out—to figure out who exactly I am and what I want.”

“You need space,” Kelley echoes, her eyes locked dead on Hope’s. “I get that,” she adds with a shrug, shoving her hands deep in the pockets of her Under Armour windbreaker. “But I wish you didn’t.”

Hope can see the tears pooling in Kelley’s eyes and decides it’s okay to cry. “I know. I know. I wish I didn’t too.” Before she can think twice about it, she crushes Kelley in a hug and buries her face in her hair. “I love you.”

They remain that way for another beat or two, embracing tightly and both wishing the other would beg. Hope pulls back before Kelley and stares deeply at the way her eyes reflect silver as they brim with tears. Then she covers her mouth with her own in a gentle, sweet kiss that doesn’t last more than a second or two. Kelley doesn’t even have time to deepen it before she feels the warmth leave her lips.

Hope disappears into the airport with promises to call, and Kelley drives home listening John Denver.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Weeks go by before Ali hears from the lawyers again.

It’s been a week since the shooting, then a month, and Ali tries to ignore the fact that things have been inexplicably good since that first night Ashlyn spent outside of jail. Part of her wants to worry about the silence on the legal end of things. She instead busies herself with the little things she used to take for granted. She has lived in D.C. for years and has yet to see most of the city, so she spends the dog days of summer with the two people in the world she loves more than anyone—Ashlyn and Beckett.

They start small; no afternoon trips to Annapolis. Ali waits for Ashlyn to drop hints that she’s ready, and even then Ashlyn has to all but haul her to the car and say that she’s tired of sitting around all day. On a scale of “from couch to 5K” to “Dawn Scott, Fitness Coach” Ali would rate their first outing as a “couch,” but it goes well. The Sunday after she gets out of jail, Ashlyn can’t take any more HGTV “House Hunter” marathons or FoodNetwork Throwdown With Bobby Flay—she says she will “explode” if she hears one more mention of a couple’s $100,000 budget and requirement of living in a five bedroom on the beach—so Ali cautiously suggests that they go get dinner. The relief in Ashlyn’s eyes says far more than her words do. Half an hour later, they are sitting at a little diner overlooking the Potomac River with Beckett, eating chicken strips with blackberry barbecue sauce and cheering as they watch the NWSL playoffs—Seattle comes out with the big win, to their disappointment. The Spirit put up a hell of a fight, and despite two good goals from Crystal, Hope had more than two excellent saves, and it’s clear that Washington is still shaken up from the shooting as well as the absence of two critical players. Then they get ice cream from a small, unsuspecting shoppe outside Capitol Hill and walk hand-in-hand back home. It’s not much, but Ashlyn’s eyes are shining by the time they settle into bed, and Ali can feel a bit more of their normalcy returning.

Baby steps.

From there, it’s a marathon, not the 100-meter dash, and Ali is glad to know that this is the way it has to be. Ashlyn goes to counseling for her post-traumatic stress five days a week at first, and it takes its toll in the beginning. After her first session, she has a nightmare for the first time since that past Thursday out of jail. Ali stays up with her well into the wee hours of morning, and they don’t cry or talk too much about what is wrong, instead taking the psychiatrist’s advice—Ali tells stories about her childhood, about funny things Ashlyn has forgotten that they did when they first became friends, about their teammates. They go through this routine for four more nights, and then the nightmares stop—at least the ones that jolt Ashlyn out of her sleep and make it hard to breathe. She still has “bad dreams,” but they are only unsettling—she doesn’t wake up screaming in the middle of the night, and some nights she doesn’t even wake up.

Together, they work their way up from the bottom of the mountain—the mountain that Ali knows will never summit. The climb started with dinner and ice cream and soon becomes lunch at Matchbox in Chinatown, then an afternoon shopping around and buying new shoes for themselves and Beckett, who has yet to take his first steps but is dangerously close according to Ashlyn. Another week passes, and they have worked their way up to day trips around D.C., doing touristy things they have never taken the time to do, like monument hopping, White House tours, the river walk, the Library of Congress, and the Holocaust museum. Ashlyn laughs excitedly the whole day, holding Ali’s hand tightly and kissing her forehead while repeatedly thanking her for all she’s done. Then they are going to doctor’s appointments together—the obstetrician for Ali, counseling for Ash—and planning little things like trips to Florida to see Ashlyn’s family and Ali’s mom. Sometimes, Ashlyn wakes up in the middle of the night without a reason—no nightmare, no flashback—and ends up writing page after page about love in her journal. She opts not to share these with anyone, not even her doctor, who has asked her to write down everything she feels. They’re too personal and mean too much to her.

Investigators still don’t have a reason as to why the gunman, whose name Ashlyn wishes she could forget, would target a soccer game when so many high-profile people and places were only minutes away. Ashlyn suspects they never will find a reason why, no matter how many so-called experts or reporters or psychologists or analysts come in. No matter how hard they try, they will never make sense of this—of the meaningless violence toward people who were all just people, no more and no less—because killing people never makes sense. You can’t make sense of death, ever. Nonetheless, the shooting remains a subject of the news, and it’s a constant reminder that they will carry that day with them forever.

As things start to look up, Ali allows herself to shove the thoughts of jail and lawyers and arrests and court to the back of her head. She doesn’t want to ruin what she and Ashlyn have by constantly worrying about court dates and sentencing and trials and juries, so she doesn’t. Days are filled with finding love again in the small things—in coffee and orange juice on the porch as the season starts to turn, in watching Beckett trump along unsteadily in his Nike shoes, in throwing flour around the kitchen while cooking, in date nights to fancy restaurants with mood lighting and wine that costs more than Ali’s new heels. Ashlyn finds her way back to the soccer fields nearly a month after she gets out jail, and there’s more happiness in her eyes and more bounce in her step when she returns a few hours later with mud streaking her clothes and a soccer ball tucked beneath her arm than there has been in thirty long days.

The chill of early autumn that only lasts through the morning has set and left a fine layer of dew on the grass on the morning that Ali gets the phone call.

It awakens her early—Ashlyn is in the shower, and Beckett has not yet whined from his crib. She has to squint at caller ID for a few seconds and blink heavily until her eyes adjust to the light, and then has to debate whether or not she is going to answer the unknown number. With a picture of Ashlyn being led off in handcuffs again in her mind, she gulps and answers right as her voicemail is picking up.

“Hello?” She can’t help the timidity in her voice. She’s scared.

There is a slight pause on the other end of the phone call. “Mrs. Krieger-Harris?”

“This is she.”

“Good morning. I’m sorry to call so early. My name is Jeanette Hardy. Last month, your wife assaulted my son Kevin in Annapolis.”

Ali is already swallowing back the urge to jump to every worst-case scenario in the books. She has done her research—assault on its own is bad. Assault occasioning actual harm is even worse. Should this woman take Ashlyn to court, there could be any number of outcomes. With Ashlyn’s diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder, the severity could be lessened, but there is still the possibility of jail time (five years maximum, which would prompt Ali to go insane), probation, in-home sentencing, community service, or—Ali’s hope—a good behaviour bond. She closes her eyes again and exhales gently. Like she and Ashlyn have discussed, good thoughts only. No negativity and no assumptions.

Unsure of how to respond to Jeanette Hardy’s statement, Ali is forced to mumble, “I know.” (She immediately wants to slap herself. “I know?” What kind of message was that sending?) “I am so sorry for that, but you have to understand that she wasn’t in a good place then, and she’s been getting help, and—“

“Ma’am, I know all the logistics surrounding what happened.” (Ali highly doubts this, but she listens anyway and doesn’t interject.) “I know that your wife was a witness and survivor to that shooting at the soccer game. I know that she is somewhat of a hero, carrying that player up to the ambulance and making sure the shooter got arrested. I get that. What she did that day was very admirable.” (Ali can’t disagree with this. Ashlyn did a very brave thing that day.) “But what she did in Annapolis is inexcusable. My son is still on a liquids-only diet. His jaw is wired shut and he needs to have his nose set through surgery. The concussion he sustained has made his personality change. But my husband and I don’t blame her.”

A sigh of relief escapes Ali’s lips. She starts sending a million thanks to God and Jeanette Hardy and the stars for lining up in her favor. “I can’t thank you enough, Mrs. Hardy, and I can’t say how sorry I am that your son is facing all this.”

“Don’t thank me just yet.” The next statement is harsh and short. “We don’t blame her for having post-traumatic stress, but you. You should have known better. You had to have known that nobody can deal with that and be fine two days later. We blame you, Mrs. Krieger-Harris. So I called to tell you that the charges may be dropped, but I hope your conscience is heavy. You were not looking out for others or for the woman you claim to love. You might not have to face a judge or watch your wife wither away in jail, but you will always have to carry around the fact that this is your fault.” And with that, the line goes dead.

Ali stares at her phone for a few moments, her eyes wide and her jaw hanging open. She wonders if she should tell Ashlyn any more than the truth—the charges are dropped and they can go on living their lives—or if she should disclose how biting and painful those words had been to hear: “You will always have to carry around the fact that this is your fault.” She swallows painfully and goes to call the lawyers, tell them that they are so grateful for their help but things are not going to go that far. No sense in bringing up the words of a hurting mother who was so willing to forgive Ashlyn.

Ashlyn is out of the shower a few minutes later, and she’s overjoyed to hear the news but knows that it’s not the whole story. She pokes and prods and interrogates and kisses until Ali has no choice but to tell her what Jeanette said.

“It’s not on you, Ali. Can we please just put this behind us?” Ashlyn begs, taking her by the hands.

For a whole beat or two, Ali stands in front of her, their eyes locked dead on in honesty, begging the other to understand. They have been in such a good place, and Ashlyn never lies. It has to be true that this isn’t on Ali.

“Let’s put this behind us,” Ali agrees as she impulsively loops her arms around Ashlyn’s waist.

It’s the first time in weeks that Ashlyn’s chest feels entirely free.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Despite a battle on the pitch, Washington Spirit falls short to Seattle in the first round of the NWSL playoffs.

That game, they all wear red armbands and write “13” in magic marker on their arms.

Hope resists the urge to call Kelley, and Kelley talks herself out of texting Hope “good game!”

Days go by, and Kelley keeps Hope’s words in the back of her mind as a promise.

_I’ll call._

Days go by, and Hope busies herself with soccer. She’s hungry for another win, another medal. Every part of her being is invested in taking Seattle Reign to the NWSL championship. Her entire life revolves around what she can do to make herself the best player possible. Every morning, she wakes up and chooses to be great. Greatness isn’t enough. She’s striving for perfection. Her days start early and end late, and the in-between is filled with more blood and sweat than she’s ever given. Five miles aren’t cutting it—she wakes before the sun rises, pulls on leggings, a sweatshirt, and her running shoes, slips in her headphones, grabs the leash, and matches pace with Leo as her feet pound into the wet concrete. She runs so hard that she loses track of where she is. The run doesn’t end until her lungs are begging her to put out the fire and her legs feel like they are leadened. While she catches her breath at a small coffee shop somewhere on the other side of the Sound, the sun is rising. It’s another seven mile jog home, but she sprints the last 100 yards.

Practices with the Reign find Hope stronger and more motivated than she has ever been before. She is diving in perfect times, punching balls clear from her net, drop kicking straight down the field to the feet of Pinoe and Kim Little, and calling out directions from between the posts with authority and conviction that nobody can quite remember hearing in her voice until now. After practices, it’s Hope who remains at the field, lifting weights for an extra thirty minutes and then getting the drill ladders back out to do more footwork. She runs more sprints and borrows Coach Harvey’s CD for the beep test. Every night she encourages herself to do a little better. If she keeps up this pace, she’ll beat the beep test before long—and Kelley’s record. It’s always dark by the time she gets back home, but she eats dinner—something healthy, protein and carbs normally—and takes a shower before she falls into bed, so exhausted she doesn’t know if she can do it again the next day but certain that she’ll choose perfection anyway.

By the time the championship game rolls around at the end of September, Hope isn’t sure if she’s been working to attain perfection or if she’s been working to forget loneliness. Either way, she has her way. Her game has been rock-solid for a month now. She has recorded only shutouts since Crystal Dunn sank two into the net behind her during their first playoff, and two of those saves have been featured on ESPN. Coach Harvey could not be any more stunned and proud of the way she’s leading the backline, and Jill calls her after every game to talk about how impressed she is with the way Hope has been performing. (She says she’s been putting on “quite the show” and that tickets to see her with the national team are selling like crazy. Of course Jill sees Hope as a huge market tool.) Her name has become a staple in every household, and this time around it’s for the right reasons—no domestic abuse allegations, no suspension from the national team, no loser husband getting arrested.

If Hope had any interest whatsoever in her own personal life, she would have read the TMZ articles and pages from the National Enquirer that show her with Kelley in Waffle House outside of Atlanta and talk about the are they/aren’t they relationship that they share, written by the woman Kelley had insisted was not a reporter. The good news is that Hope doesn’t give a damn about what other people are saying about her. She’s on fire. She doesn’t have time for anything outside of soccer, and even that is a push. There aren’t enough hours in a day for her to do everything she possibly wants to, and Coach Harvey is keeping close tabs on their sleep and diet. (Not that Hope has given her anything to worry about other than her sometimes too-quick tongue with the press when she deflects any questions that aren’t related to the beautiful game.) It takes her a few days to even hear about the articles, and by then they are old news and it’s too late to call Kelley about them.

Thinking about Kelley still lights a fire in Hope’s chest, and she buries it with an off-skelter balance of work and play. Her mind wanders too much when she has nothing to do, so she is constantly busy with training or media or the team. Even then, she finds herself sending sunset hike pictures to Carli instead of Kelley and calling Ashlyn “just to talk.” Late at night, Hope crawls into an empty bed and wishes Kelley was there to fill the space. She puts on wool socks and the Stanford hoodie she stole from the laundry to make it seem a little less cold. At three in the morning, she tries not to play sad sonatas on the piano like Kelley always does, and she throws away the Kraft mac and cheese from her pantry. One evening, as she sits on her couch icing her feet and shoulder while eating a turkey sandwich, she turns the TV to ABCFamily and watches The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. According to her Twitter feed, Kelley is watching too—she’s live tweeting the movie with Becky. It makes her feel less alone to know that, three timezones and thousands of miles away, Kelley is quoting the movie aloud and thinking about the hours spent dissecting this very story with Hope. There’s not a moment gone by that Hope doesn’t question if she made the right decision in choosing to leave Kelley, but she knows that she isn’t in a place to love her right now.

It hurts.

It physically hurts Hope to wonder about Kelley. She loves her. They both know that Hope Solo loves Kelley O’Hara more than she has ever loved anyone. Hell, the world knows that simple truth. But Hope also knows that there is a time for everything, and this is not the time for her and Kelley. She knows that she has a lot of work to do on herself if the time is ever to come. Before she can be Kelley’s again, she has to be her own. She has to learn what exactly it means to love someone more than she loves herself. She has to figure out how to give herself to someone else without leaving herself bare. She is not naive enough to believe that she and Kelley will never be in a place to love one another again, but she knows that this is not that time nor that place. The stars will have to directly aline for that day, and until then Hope thinks she can be okay being Kelley’s “just friend.” Hope figures she might always get the urge to call Kelley after a hard day, and some day that might be okay. She wants to be Kelley’s friend. She wants to be a part of her life. She just can’t be the part they both want her to be right now. Until then, friends will be fine. (It won’t, but Hope can lie to herself better than she can lie to anyone else.)

Hope and her hard work lead the Reign to the championship, to be held in Carson, California, the last Saturday of September. They’ll be playing Houston Dash, who beat them last time they met after one of Carli’s shots hit Hope in the thigh as she dove and went in. Carli still has not let the own goal drop—she reminds Hope of it every time she sees her. Hope isn’t worried at all. She knows the Dash well, and the hours of film she’s watched and extra work she has put in will only serve Seattle a benefit. Her attitude is borderline cocky, but she is confident in her abilities and believes that she and her team have what it takes to win the championship. She also knows Carson well—the national team has trained there quite a bit, and Reign will adjust nicely to the weather. Several of her national teammates have arrived in Carson to watch—Cheney, Becky, A-Rod, and even HAO (who is mostly recovered by now) from Kansas City; Syd and Whit in from Western New York; Boxxy, Julie, Press, and Lori from Chicago; Tobin, Alex, and Buehler from Portland; Crystal from D.C. Nobody is quite sure yet if Ali, Ashlyn, or Kelley will come, but it doesn’t matter either way to Hope. She’s in game mode.

Unfortunately for Hope, her teammates being in California means that they pick up on the things she has hidden from her club teammates. The national team knows her better than anyone else in the world, and they can tell when she’s avoiding situations. Had Pinoe and Abby not been so focused on Reign—on winning and being the best the nation has seen—they would have easily spotted Hope’s classic diversion technique. All work, no play makes Hope a firecracker. She eats, breathes, sleeps, bleeds soccer. Some could pass this off as “driven.” Who wouldn’t want to win? Hard work has never scared Hope, and she never shies away from a challenge. But her family picks up on it two days before the championship, and they are bound and determined to do something about it.

It’s Sydney and Julie’s idea, and when Cheney presents it to Hope she makes sure that those are the first words out of her mouth: “It was Syd and JJ’s idea.” Immediately Hope knows that she’s going to decline the offer. She has a championship to win, and if this is Syd and JJ’s idea, there will be a tight dress on Hope’s body before the hour is over (one that she spends the entire night pulling down further on her thighs and further up on her chest), too much hairspray (the extra-hold kind that gives her a headache and makes it impossible to brush her hair out), a smokey eye (that makes Hope look like a drag queen), and alcohol (which will leave her with a massive hangover and inhibit her performance.) She doesn’t need anything to take away from her focus. She’s like a hawk. She has tunnel vision. All that matters is winning in two days. So, very politely but very firmly, Hope turns down the offer.

“You’re not getting out if that easy,” Cheney says plainly, shaking her head. “They’re already planning on you being there, and you know how Syd gets when you tell her no.”

“I said no, didn’t I?”

“You haven’t even heard the plan yet!” A-Rod insists, blocking Hope from leaving the hotel room she’s sharing with her husband.

Hope crosses her arms over her chest and cocks one hip defiantly. She knows she has her normal, bossy expression on, but she doesn’t care. They can call it her “resting bitch face” all they want. There is no way in hell they are forcing her to go out tonight. “I don’t have to hear the plan to know that I don’t want to do it. If it’s JJ and Syd’s idea, you guys will have me in a short tight dress with my hair teased and makeup applied heavily before another hour passes, and then you’ll have me drunk and I won’t be able to crush Carli and Morgan and Kling on Saturday. Besides, it’s a Thursday. You can’t party on a Thursday.”

So that’s the story of how, two hours later, Hope finds herself three drinks deep at a club in Los Angeles, wearing a tight black dress that pushes her boobs too much and keeps riding up too high on her thigh, and batting her eyelashes heavily at a man who continues to order her Malibu shots. She is long past the point of no return, though she still can’t believe she allowed herself to be talked into this. The music is loud—the deejay is playing something catchy and electronic with a lot of bass—and it vibrates deep in Hope’s chest. She lost most of her teammates in the vibrant crowd a while ago. The last she saw, Julie was grinding on a man who looked like he could barely stand up straight, Syd was dragging Dom onto the dance floor, Cheney had formed a crowd with Becky, Press, Alex, and Tobin (they always went out to dance but never failed to form a tight circle that they stuck to and drunkenly chased men off when they tried to ask one of the girls to dance), and Crystal was eating hot wings in a contest with another girl who had at least fifty pounds and six inches on her. In fact, Hope has been left sitting next to A-Rod and Buehler on a bar stool she keeps sliding off of and drinking whatever is put in front of her.

“Cool hang, right?!” A-Rod shouts over the music approximately three inches from Hope’s face.

There’s something burning unsettlingly in Hope’s belly. She’s tired. She’s already been here for too long, and now she is drunk and wants to go get in bed. Instead, she downs another glass of Malibu and stands up. “Thanks for inviting me.”

She starts to wobble in her six-inch heels, and A-Rod has to steady her with an arm. “Whoa there. You good, buddy?” She smiles up at Hope with a sly, proud grin on her face. (How the hell had they managed to convince Hope to come out tonight?)

“Never better,” Hope replies, slurring her words as she pushes A-Rod off her with a little more force than necessary.

“Be careful, sweetie! Make good decisions!” A-Rod calls after her as she heads clumsily onto the dance floor.

Cheney appears next to A-Rod, out of breath and cheeks pink from the heat and dancing. “She is having fun…isn’t she?”

A-Rod nods quickly. “Oh yeah. Let’s just pray she bows out soon, or she won’t be coherent for another week.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ali sits on the beach and watches the surfers paddle further and further out.

The evening is turning to night, and Beckett’s brown eyes continue to get heavier and heavier as he snuggles closer to her chest. In front of them, the waves continue to swell as the sun sets lower in the sky. Before long, the sky will lose even its orange glow on the horizon, and the light blue will meet the velvet of the sky overhead. Still, Ali remains cross-legged on the old quilt, her hood pulled up to shield her ears from the cool breeze, squinting out at the silhouettes on the water. Somewhere further down the beach, a bonfire is aglow and laughter rings out from the people surrounding it. Had this been a few years and many moons ago, Ali knows she would have gone to join them—had a cheap beer, passed around a bottle of Jamaican rum, roasted marshmallows and kissed random people. Instead, she sits on the beach at sunset with her son in her arms and watches her wife surf.

It had not been an easy decision for Ali and Ashlyn to make when they were trying to figure out if they would travel to California for the NWSL Championship Game. They had talked about it for weeks in passing—casually bringing it up when Hope texted Ashlyn, or Carli sent out a taunting tweet along the lines of “on to the next, bring it @hopesolo ;) #owngoal”—but hadn’t made a decision until three days before the game. For Ali, it had been a no-brainer. Nobody really expected them to be at the game. Hope especially would understand that they couldn’t go, and the others would get over it eventually. Ashlyn had been doing so well—why risk it by flying across the country and going to a busy soccer game that would attract tens of thousands of people? But Ashlyn was adamant. She was ready. She NEEDED to be there. They should have been there as a team—they would have made it this far if not for the shooting—and she wants to support her family and see HAO and make sure they’re all okay. She was certain she would feel better if she went. And she wanted to surf. Being at the beach would heal her completely of any doubts she had.

The battle was lost before it began. Ashlyn’s doctor thought it was a fantastic idea for them to travel to California and get out of Washington D.C. for a bit. He also said that Ali’s support was critical during this time, and she had to let Ashlyn set boundaries for herself. The leash was too short, and suffocating Ash would do neither of them any good. If Ashlyn wanted to continue to improve, they couldn’t avoid busy places like airports and soccer stadiums forever. She had to know what she could and couldn’t take. Ali would be there every step of the way, but this had to be Ashlyn’s fight. If Ashlyn thought she could take it, odds are she could. And if Ashlyn said that this would help her, it more than likely would. The plane tickets and hotel reservations were booked by the time they arrived back home, and Ashlyn started packing the second she got inside. For the rest of the night it was all she talked about.

Ali knows that most of her resistance didn’t come from worry about Ashlyn. Ashlyn is very confident in who she is and her abilities. Considering that she is the one who suggested going to the championship, she’s going to fare just fine in California. Ali, on the other hand, is terrified. She doesn’t know how she’ll react to the crowd at the game. She’s not sure if all the noise will overwhelm her or if she will get spooked by the security. Part of her doesn’t want to ever enter a stadium again. She didn’t even see what other people saw, and she’s terrified.

The sky has turned a royal blue when Ashlyn jogs up the shore, her hair hanging in salty tangles and sand smeared on her face. There is a smile on her lips that Ali hasn’t seen since they last visited the ocean. Her wetsuit is unzipped to her waist and her muscles ripple powerfully. If Ali is being honest, she would take her right on this beach if she could.

“Surf’s pretty good tonight,” Ashlyn comments, trying to hide the excitement in her voice as she towels off her sandy body.

Ali smiles. “Is it? You looked like you were having a ‘pretty good’ time out there.”

“Alright, Miss Sarcastic.” Ashlyn pulls a Nike hoodie over her head and sits down on the blanket beside Ali, her wetsuit still hanging at her hips. She exhales heavily and directs her eyes to where the full moon is rising over the tide. “It’s more than pretty good. Alex, I felt so alive out there. It’s like…for the first time in forever I don’t have to worry about anything. It was just me and my board and the waves and the adrenaline running through my blood. God, it was like magic. I’ve done a lot of really great things in my life that make me feel good. There have been badass saves on the pitch and wins that we barely pulled off and rad tricks in the halfpipe or bowl, but this? This is the best thing I’ve ever felt. I’m ready to play soccer again, but this felt like I’ve been waiting for centuries just to feel the saltwater at my feet again.”

“Better than sex?” Ali returns innocently, her eyes focused in the exact spot Ashlyn’s had been until they turned to meet her with alarm. Instantly, she relaxes when Ali snickers and nudges into her. “I know what you mean, babe. I’m glad you felt so alive.”

“Not just felt, past-tense…Feel. I feel so alive. The heaviness is gone. I could be here, on Newport Beach, surfing and sitting with you and our son and breathing in the saltwater for a thousand years.”

Ali leans into Ash’s shoulder and smiles into the soft cotton of her hoodie. “What if I told you we could?”

“I wouldn’t believe you. We’re both on the list to be allocated from Washington Spirit, and besides all that there isn’t a team in California.” Ashlyn trades her wetsuit for a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and then flops onto her back on the sand beside Ali. “It’s nice to think about, though.”

“We can, Ash. I got a call from Jill and Sunil earlier today, when you and Beck went to get supper in the airport. Starting next season, there’s going to be a club team right in Carson. Not all the logistics are worked out yet, but it’s a deal with LA Galaxy. Jill and U.S. Soccer were wondering if we’d be interested in playing out here. I mean, it’s a brand new team, we’ll be two of three allocations allotted to the team—she’s thinking Tobin might want to play out here too—and there’ll be new players to acquire of course. We can’t expect mad success the first season because this will take some adjusting, but they really could use the number 1 goalkeeper in the world between their posts.” Ali pauses and tries to read Ashlyn’s expression. “Oh, and guess who’s going to coach? Mia Hamm.”

Ashlyn’s eyes flicker wide. “Mia Hamm is going to coach this team?”

She nods. “They’re also looking to trade some club talent out here. Besides three national team players, Jill really would like to see Allie Long and maybe one of the Mewis sisters playing for FC Galactica. She also mentioned something about trading for the number one pick in the draft this winter.” With a casual shrug, Ali pretends to play off the entire offer. “I told them we would think about it, but we really love D.C.”

“Alex! You did not?!”

“I didn’t,” Ali laughs in agreement. “I said we would talk about it, but I didn’t think it would take much to get you on board. I know Florida would be your first pick, but there are no teams there yet, and California’s not bad. We’ll be close to Kyle, and there’s this house on the beach that would be perfect to live in—it’s got four bedrooms and an outdoor shower for when you come in all wet and sandy from surfing, and there’s a yard for Beck and his sister, and—“

Ashlyn’s lips crash into hers and cut her off. “Beck and his sister?”

“Did I say that…?” Ali mumbles in a high-pitched voice, sifting sand through her fingers as she feels her cheeks blush red. She’s suddenly grateful for the cover of the night. “I mean, I know we said we didn’t want to find out but it was driving me nuts so I called the office back and they told me. I was just going to keep it a secret until she came out.”

“You sneak!”

“I guess I am a sneak, but you know I’m really awful with surprises, and I just got to thinking about it, and I don’t want to be surprised. I want to know what we’re getting ourselves into. I want to have her name picked out and her nursery decorated and clothes for her to wear. I don’t want to have to wonder, about anything. I mean, we’re so sure of us right now—we are in such a good place, and I just…why not want more? I want to have it all.”

Ashlyn kisses her long and hard. When she pulls away, she stands up in front of Ali and lets her voice echo as she yells, “HEY! HEY EVERYONE! I AM MADLY IN LOVE WITH ALEXANDRA KRIEGER-HARRIS AND I AM GOING TO HAVE A DAUGHTER IN FEBRUARY AND WE ARE GOING TO LIVE IN CALIFORNIA AND BE HAPPY FOREVER!!!”

“So what should I tell them?” Ali asks as they walk hand-in-hand to the car.

“Tell them this is the best day of my life.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Hope takes a cab back to the hotel at around one in the morning.

She’s drunker than she’s been since January, her feet are killing her, and she lost count of how many drinks she had. Add to that the amount of makeup on her face and Matrix Extra-Hold in her hair, and she’s about done in on the “fun” spectrum for a while. What she does remember of the night is fuzzy and incomplete—a dance with the guy who kept buying her drinks, too much cheese pizza she shared with a complete stranger, throwing up in the tiny, dark bathroom of the club while listening to people have sex one stall over, doing a body shot on someone she had never met before. The amount of alcohol consumed tonight is begging her to just go to sleep. Or it’s begging her to make more poor choices. She can’t quite decipher which it is.

The hotel lobby is all but abandoned at this hour. Hope traipses in, wobbling drunkenly and from the height of the heels Cheney had strapped onto her feet as they prepared to leave earlier, looking like a high-end hooker. She holds her head high as she stumbles past the front desk, where the manager and night staff all choose to look the other way because she is Hope Solo, and the bell hop nods curtly when he passes her in the hallway where she’s buying hot cheetos from the vending machine. (Hope hates getting drunk because she always ends up eating everything in sight.) It takes her a solid ten minutes to get from the vending machines to the elevator—she fell a grand total of three times with nobody around to see her except the security cameras, though she knows the hotel security will get a good laugh out of the footage in the days to come. She forgets what floor her room is on—she’s sharing with Pinoe; go figure—and ends up riding the elevator all the way to the sixteenth floor and having to take a ride of shame back to the fifth with a businessman who stares at her like she’s making him uncomfortable the entire way down.

What feels like an eternity later, the elevator dings and the doors open to the fifth floor. Hope casts a smile to the businessman—she’ll remember later that she looked like a psycho killer—and stumbles down the hallway toward her room. Come to think of it, she doesn’t remember her room number either. Rather than calling Pinoe, she continues to walk the halls unsteadily, nearly falling an additional three or four times before she spots someone near the end of the hall with luggage and a pillow, making their way to their own room. The messy bun and sunshine yellow pillowcase are a dead giveaway.

Picking up her pace to reach the end of the hallway, Hope squeals excitedly, “KELLEEEYYYY!”

The sound of her own voice is too much for her drunken body to handle. It’s shrill and echoes off the walls long after hotel quiet hours. She has only just reached Kelley with long strides when she trips over her own two feet and begins to fall forward. With one foot keeping her room door from shutting and her room key bitten between her teeth so she can hold onto it while moving her luggage in, Kelley manages to catch Hope an instant before she would have face planted on the hotel carpet.

“Easy does it,” she comments as she helps Hope back to her feet, dusting her hands off like she’s succeeded at life in general.

“Hiiii, Kelley,” Hope drawls, and the most sober part of her mind cringes. That drunken slur is far too flirty and high-pitched to be from Hope. “What are you doing here?” (Except it sounds more like, “whuh err you doin’ here?”)

Kelley frees her foot and uses it as a doorstop as she pushes her bags inside like they’re a soccer ball. “Let’s get you to bed, Hope. What room are you in?”

“I don’t remember!” Hope squeaks, sounding like a sorority girl. “Guess I’ll just have to sleep in yours!”

“Slow down there, cowboy,” Kelley laughs, helping her in nonetheless. “Let me call Pinoe to find out where you’re supposed to be.”

While she dials, Hope curls up on the king-sized bed and pouts. “Your bed is much comfier than mine.”

“You don’t need to sleep in here. You need to be with your team,” Kelley responds as she waits for Pinoe to pick up her phone.

“Heeey Kelley!!!” Pinoe answers excitedly. “Saw that you’re here for the final! Yay! What’s going on?”

Kelley casts a look over her shoulder to where Hope is struggling to take off her heels. “Hope Solo showed up at my door drunk.”

With that, Pinoe begins to roar with laughter. “No shit? Damn! I’m glad the girls got her to go out with them tonight. She’s been super intense and needed to let up a little. I didn’t think she’d let loose any until the game was over or until she got some ass.” She pauses. “Don’t give her any ass, okay Kell? It will just confuse her now.”

“Wasn’t in my plan.” Kelley stares at Hope again, her heart aching. She wishes so badly that things were different between them. Sure, she could find a way to be Hope’s friend, but she wants to be more than just her friend. She wants to marry her and have her babies and live with her for the rest of her life. “What room should I take her to?”

“What room?” Now Pinoe sounds bewildered. “Oh hell no. You are not going to drop Drunk Hope on me before the game. I’ve gotta get to bed!” And with that, she ends the call without even a goodbye.

Kelley sighs heavily and turns to where Hope is stripping down from her dress and looking like she could pass out any second now. Seconds before she loses balance and topples over, Kelley steadies her and helps her out of her dress. “Let’s get you in the shower, okay?”

“Okay,” Hope agrees. As she is led to the bathroom, she whips around so fast that she nearly takes Kelley’s eye out. “But only if you join!”

There is a chuckle from Kelley as she turns on the water hot, just the way Hope likes it, and helps her into the tub. She can’t say that she doesn’t find this incoherent, giggly, teenage-girl version of Hope amusing if not a bit endearing, but she knows that nothing can happen, so she just sits back on her heels and washes Hope’s hair, takes off the pounds of eye makeup she’s wearing, and brushes her teeth for her after forcing a glass of water and three ibuprofen down her throat. When Hope is out of the shower and dried off, no longer smelling like cigars and alcohol and sweat and cheetos, Kelley helps her into a tee shirt and clean underwear, then situates her in bed, where she promptly flickers her eyes wide open.

“Kelley.”

“Mmmhmm?” Kelley says, sliding into bed beside her but making sure to keep her distance. Drunk Hope doesn’t need any encouragement, and Kelley wants to be clear of her intentions—Hope is only sharing a bed with her because she’s drunk and Pinoe doesn’t want her in there. She closes her eyes to show Hope that she plans on going straight to sleep. When she opens them after a few seconds of silence to see if Hope has fallen asleep yet, Hope is no less than three inches from her face with her eyes alight and a childish grin across her face.

“I love you,” she says, and it’s the first time she’s spoken that she hasn’t sounded like she’s seconds from busting into a cheerleading jump.

All Kelley can offer is a small nod and a calming stroke to Hope’s hair. “I know.”

Something changes in Hope’s eyes, and though she is still drunk she looks painfully sober, like she’s feeling everything she was drinking to forget. “You deserve to be loved.”

Again, Kelley nods and hushes her gently.

“I wish I could love you. That’s what I want. I don’t want to be your ‘friend.’ I want to be yours.”

Drunk words are sober thoughts, Kelley reminds herself. She doesn’t know if that makes her feel better or worse.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

When Kelley wakes the next morning, Hope is gone. She has taken her clothes from the night before and folded the tee shirt Kelley lent her neatly on top of her suitcase, and there is a note written on the hotel note pad. 

_thanks for taking care of me last night. —Hope_

Kelley doesn’t see Hope again until she’s leaping into the crowd after the championship game on Saturday.

Like most of the people around her, Kelley is wearing red, white, and blue and yelling herself hoarse. She’s been on the edge of her seat the entire game, biting her nails (which has never been a habit of hers, but she catches herself doing it during the 74th minute) and shouting at terrible officiating or a particularly hard foul that she thinks should have been a yellow. Her teammates sit on either side of her. They take up a whole row. Unsure of who to root for—Hope, Abby, and Pinoe versus Carli, Morgan, and Kling—they have all worn the colors of their flag to show unity. One nation, one team. In a match as divisive and final as this one, they have chosen to side with their family, not Seattle or Houston. Collectively, they cheer for the game, shout approval for smart moves by rookies and veterans alike, yell when someone from either team gets tackled, stay reverently quiet when a player goes down and the stretcher comes out, clap for every goal and every save. They have not chosen a team. They have chosen their family.

Of course, Kelley can’t say she’s disappointed at all when Seattle comes out with the win after a round of penalty kicks. Hope saved every one of them, recording her sixth straight shoutout in playoffs. Pinoe made the winning PK, taking the game from a scoreless draw to a victory. Both teams are wearing red armbands in support of the shooting a little over a month ago at Marilyn Hendricks Sportsplex, and Carli, Morgan, Kling, Hope, Pinoe, and Abby all have “HAO” and “13” written on their forearms. It’s for that reason that Kelley finds herself on her feet when the ball hits the back of the net, straight past Erin McLeod, cheering at the top of her lungs for Hope and Seattle and America in general—but mainly Hope. She knows that her teammates are on their feet too, clapping and cheering and hollering as players hop the rails and land in the arms of those they love.

Hope is the first to reach the stands. She went flying off the pitch so fast she was a blur—the fastest Kelley has ever seen any goalkeeper move—and has sent herself hurdling through the air, over the railing, and straight into her pack of national teammates, all decked out in red, white, and blue and knocking each other out of the way to get to clap her on the back and hug her and congratulate her. Nobody can get more than a smile or a second glance from Hope as she passes down their line as fast as she possibly can. It takes Kelley a moment to realize she’s coming straight for her, but by the time Hope has managed to push past Ashlyn, Ali, HAO, Cheney, JJ, Syd, Alex, and Whitney she has been waiting for her own moment to share with the number one goalkeeper in the world.

Before Hope can even high-five her, Kelley has thrown her arms around her neck and is holding on as tightly as she can. She might not can have Hope forever, but she can have her in this moment. Right now, with Hope winning the NWSL Championship and being so deserving of it, she is allowed to want her deeply, to hold her, to let herself connect with the one person in this world she loves more than anything. Tears begin to gather in the corners of her eyes as she whispers into Hope’s ear, “You didn’t call.”

“I know,” Hope whispers back, her hot breath tickling Kelley’s neck.

“You promised you would call.”

“I know.”

Kelley can feel the tension between herself and Hope as they stand less than a foot apart. Though Hope is standing the row below her, she’s still eye level, and those ice-blue irises are penetrating Kelley like she’s staring into the sun. It’s suddenly like they’re the only two people in the stadium, though there are hundreds of people within a few yards of them.

“But you’re here,” Hope states, not caring who hears her. “I didn’t call, and you’re still here.”

A hint of annoyance rises in Kelley’s chest. “I came to see my team,” she lies. “Whether or not you called, I was going to be here to support my family.”

“I should have stayed.”

Anger and hurt flashes in Kelley’s eyes, and Hope cringes. She did that to her. “Probably not.” Those two words are more harsh and cut deeper than Kelley had intended. Even she has to flinch when she sees the way Hope drops her chin jerkily to stare at the spilled popcorn that lays over the ground.

“Is there anything I can do to make this all go away?” Hope swings her hands widely to gesture at the two of them and the rest of their team. She knows that Kelley will understand what she’s saying. “Maybe the signs were wrong. I mean, I’ve been trying to follow them all month and it all just comes back to you, Kelley. I thought the signs were telling me that I couldn’t love you right now, that the timing wasn’t right, but fuck it, Kell—is the timing ever right for these things? Love isn’t convenient. It’s hard and it hurts and there’s always compromise involved—always. I thought the signs were telling me that I couldn’t be yours, but I’ve been following the signs like you told me to and I just…it’s you. It’s you, Kelley, and it always will be. I think the signs were wrong because all the ones since have been leading me straight back to you.”

“Remember the signs and believe the signs, Hope. Nothing else matters.”

Hope can’t stop the frustrated tears from spilling over. She knows that she can’t be saying all this right now, but she also knows that she can’t go another moment without living her truth. “After all this time, it’s still you.”


	17. together.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Kelley and Hope's journey. It isn't always perfect, but it's always beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we approach the end. I find myself so grateful for all that you guys have done for me. Thank you eternally, beautiful humans. Thank you. And sorry it took me so long to update...I wanted this to be perfect.

“I’ll call,” Hope says, and this time they both take it as a promise.

As she watches Hope throw the strap of her duffle bag over her shoulder and jog after her teammates, Kelley feels a familiar wave rise in her chest. There once was a day, years back, when she had no idea what hit her when Hope smiled at her—something she had proven to be quite the expert at, as the rest of the national team had once referred to Hope as the “Ice Queen” in private. It had taken time, of course, as things did with Hope, but Kelley eventually came to realize that she liked her. She liked being her roommate (courtesy of their coaches for always trying to find a way to make Hope less abrasive and more involved with the team), her friend (this one courtesy of Pia Sundhage, who had thrown Kelley onto Hope’s backline), and someone she could talk to (and this courtesy of too many drinks one night in Portugal.) And then it was something more. She liked testing the limits with Hope—sitting too close when they watched movies in HAO and Cheney’s room, daring their wrists to touch when serving potatoes at team dinners in the hotel conference room just so she could feel that electricity run up her arm, falling asleep in Hope’s bed just to see if she’d be there when she woke up.

That wave is love.

Seeing Hope off, back to Seattle, is a lot easier this time than it was a month ago. Kelley knows this because she doesn’t have to fight back tears as she walks to her own gate with a one-way ticket to New York City instead of Atlanta. Of course, their parting terms are much happier than they were in August, too. That helps a lot, Kelley thinks. Instead of tension, sad kisses, and tears in front of the airport, they exchanged giggly, teasing kisses and twinkly eyes. Hope had arrived on the last team van at the terminal right in front of Kelley’s cab. She had motioned her Reign teammates to continue on without her—she’d catch up to them in a minute—and ignored the catcalls from Pinoe, who was skipping up to the American Airlines check-in desk with her tongue out and her eyes light. Kelley paid her cab fare and tipped the driver for rushing her there so she wouldn’t miss her flight—she had overslept, waking up two hours before her flight was supposed to leave and knowing it would take a good thirty or forty minutes in traffic to make it to John Wayne International Airport—before turning to face Hope, who was leaning against her suitcase with a fun, almost predatory glint in her eye.

“Oversleep, O’Hara?” she had asked with a smirk, zipping her Nike jacket up a little further.

Kelley rolled her eyes dramatically and shifted her travel pillow higher under her arm. “Just a little. Miss the first two vans, I assume?”

“Maybe I did it on purpose,” Hope said, and there was something challenging in her voice. She took one quick glance around before grabbing Kelley by the wrist and pulling her over behind a pillar, where she promptly found herself pinned against the concrete and being kissed heatedly by Hope Solo. When they both pulled back, eyes dark and lips swollen, Hope had smirked. “I had to do that before I leave.”

Despite oversleeping and having to run from flight check-in to security—she has never been so grateful for TSA pre-check—Kelley makes it to her gate with a few minutes to spare. The sun has only just risen, and she’s running on three hours of sleep after celebrating the win last night with her national teammates. (Once again, Syd and JJ’s idea. This one involved less alcohol and more In-N-Out Burger; less dancing and more Monopoly and Cards Against Humanity—but nonetheless it had lasted long into the early hours of morning.) It takes her only a matter of seconds to spot the Starbucks kiosk directly across from her gate, and she hears herself breathe a sigh of relief. She dumps her Under Armour tote bag and travel pillow in an empty seat, asks a random man with a briefcase if he will please keep an eye on her things, and all but runs to get in line for an iced coffee.

“Venti iced caramel macchiato, please,” she says hurriedly when she reaches the front of the line, rummaging through her wallet to find her Starbucks gold card.

“You shouldn’t have too much caffeine, ya know,” says a calm, almost monotone voice from behind Kelley. “Bad for the baby.”

She is fully prepared to whip around and confront the asshole who is telling her how to live her life but encounters a bit of surprise when she turns and sees Tobin Heath standing directly behind her in line for coffee.

“Shouldn’t you be on a flight to Portland by now? Alex and Servando left at like five this morning.” The ice and chill in Kelley’s voice is a lot more prominent than she intends, and it makes her cringe.

Tobin, on the other hand, pockets her black iPhone (no case on it, go figure) and shrugs casually. “Portland’s old news. I need a break.”

Kelley snatches her coffee off the counter and stirs in a little bit more heavy cream. “So what’s your plan?”

“Ehh, I don’t know.” There is another casual shrug from Tobin as she orders her light roast with three sugars and two creams. “I have a ticket to JFK. Thought maybe I could crash with you for a little while.”

There is a pang in Kelley’s heart for her friend. “Of course you can, roomie. There’s always room for you at my place.”

The pair leaves it at that. Kelley doesn’t ask any questions. There’s no reason to. She lived with Tobin for a while in San Francisco, and that’s just how things are with her gypsy friend. Portland had probably started to feel too much like a settling ground for her—too much like a place she had to put her roots down. She can’t stay in one place too long without feeling like she’s suffocating, confined and unable to breathe. For Tobin, “home” is contingent on the presence of at least one of twenty-four other women she has come to call her family. She bounces around the country, staying in a single place for no longer than a month or two outside of the NWSL season. Some nights she sleeps on the couches of her teammates, sometimes there’s a bed for her, and other times she jumps from house to house in the same city. Tobin doesn’t need a driver’s license for every state she has lived in—there’s no way she could do that, and she doesn’t drive much anyway—or a house with her name on the title to come back to. She has no permanent residence and oftentimes asks her teammates casually if she can use their addresses for the forms they fill out for travel and tournaments.

Coffee in hand, Kelley and Tobin head to the gate together. They sit in silence for a few minutes, stirring their drinks and glancing around the airport with bleary eyes. Tobin is all limbs, her skin tanned brown and her legs stretching out past Kelley’s. There is a jacket tied loosely around her waist and a beanie crammed over her ears. Kelley recognizes it as Tobin’s travel look—a tank top, leggings, a hat, and a jacket. She sits in quiet thought for hours sometimes, and Kelley never knows what’s going on in that brilliant mind of hers. Almost nobody does. There have been times when she has been able to understand just what her friend thinks, but most of the time she is left in the dark with everyone else.

Neither of them speak until they are walking down the jetway with their boarding passes and sipping their coffee. Kelley feels a little more awake now as the sun peaks over the foggy horizon, though her head is still spinning from kissing Hope.

“So you and Hope, huh,” Tobin says without a change in her voice at all, like she’s asking about the weather or flight conditions.

For as unsurprised as Tobin seems, Kelley almost does a spit-take with her iced caramel macchiato. “What do you mean, me and Hope?!” she stutters, feeling her face grow hot.

Tobin slides in front of her as they enter the plane. “I mean, you two are okay now, right? At least, that’s how it appeared to be when we were all in Abby’s hotel room last night. You two were pretty close, so I’ve just gotta know—you two are…”

“We aren’t having sex if that’s what you think,” Kelley hisses, nodding politely at the flight attendants as they make their way to their seats.

“Hey, I didn’t say it, you did,” Tobin replies, sliding into the window seat and flashing her a crooked, amused grin. “But I mean, if you and Hope ARE actually doing the nasty-nasty, that’s good. You do you, KO. You do you.”

“We aren’t!” Kelley’s voice is way louder than she means for it to be. She glances around nervously and lowers it significantly. “We aren’t having sex. We’re just…we’re just…”

Tobin shrugs again. “You’re just in love. Way to join the rest of the world in this knowledge.”

Before the takeoff, Kelley’s phone rings. She nods urgently and holds up one finger to the flight attendant who is giving her a dirty look to signal that she’s going to make it quick. “Hello?”

“This is me, calling,” Hope’s happy, dry tone says on the other end of the call.

“I haven’t even left yet.”

“I know. I’m just keeping my promise.”

Kelley can’t say that her heart isn’t racing excitedly with every second that goes by. “Well, I’m glad you’re a woman of your word.” She glances up at the flight attendant (now standing with her arms crossed at the end of Kelley and Tobin’s row with a disapproving look on her face) and gives her a quick nod. “Hey, listen—I’ve gotta go. But call me when you land in Seattle, okay? I like to hear your voice.”

There is something light-hearted and almost sarcastic in Hope’s tone. Kelley recognizes it as happiness. “Of course I will. Let me know when you get to Georgia. And I love you, Kell.”

“I’m going to New York and I love you too,” she finishes in one breath, clicking “end” on the call and turning on airplane mode before dropping her phone in her lap and holding her hands up in surrender.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Kelley spends the flight trying to pinpoint the exact moment she fell in love with Hope.

There’s no exact moment, she finally establishes. It had been more of a slow evolution from fear to respect to friendship to connection to…to, well, whatever the hell that stage of limbo had been, to love. She remembers being terrified of Hope when she came on to the national team. She had been young, still in college, and younger than most of her teammates. She was a child, it felt like. Of course, everyone on Kelley’s team at Stanford knew who Hope Solo was after the 2007 World Cup. Kelley knew about her too. They were all fascinated by the talent, sharp tongue, cockiness, and brazen posture of the goalkeeper. At the time, she had been young too, and fairly new talent to the national team. She hadn’t made her way to the number one in the world yet, but the talent was there.

And Kelley didn’t know it, but Hope knew who she was too. She knew who the young new call-up was. At the time, Kelley had been Stanford’s star player. The forward was a goal-scoring machine who played with a tenacity and fight that Hope found both admirable and intriguing. Kelley was the first player to have been ejected from the U-20 FIFA Women’s World Cup after getting two yellow cards. Hope watched the game online and was absolutely amazed by how high Kelley held her head as she left the field. She was certain that if she were ejected from a game for two yellows, she would have cried. When she found out that Kelley was coming into national camp in December of 2010, she felt both nervous and excited. By this time, Hope was…well, Hope was Hope. Hope was the best of the best, and Kelley was a kid. Granted, she was a kid who won a Hermann trophy and played a more physical game of ball than Hope had ever seen…but she was still a kid.

_After her first camp with the national team, Kelley’s Stanford teammates all ask a million questions. They want to know about the infamous Hope Solo. Well, Kelley tells them, she was scary. Tall and brazen and serious and talented. Intimidating and brilliant and dry. That is about all she knew. She spent most of her camp with her roommate—Abby, another one of their heroes—and working with the forwards on striking and footwork. Her first cap comes a few months later. She plays for a few minutes against Mexico and Hope tells her she did well. That becomes the first time Hope complimented her. The 2011 World Cup call-ups and roster are announced, and Kelley’s name is not on it. Though she pretends not to be, Kelley is disappointed and embarrassed. She rides the bench like it was her job, being a cheerleader and a good teammate. When they stand on the podium and silver medals are hung around their necks, nobody says anything, but Kelley knows that it feels like they have snatched defeat from the jaws of victory._

_When the Olympic qualifiers come around, Kelley makes sure she is not going to be left in the dust for this roster announcement. Sure enough, her name is there, right next to those of Abby Wambach and Alex Morgan and Christie Rampone and Hope Solo. She doesn’t allow herself to feel proud for very long. Spots on this team are earned, not given, and she is bound and determined to make sure they all know she belongs there. She works harder and longer than everyone else—everyone except for Hope, who knows what it feels like to come so far only to fall short of a win. They work side-by-side most nights, lifting and running and conditioning, silent other than a short “good job” when they retire to their separate hotel rooms. That is, until Pia figures out that Kelley can get along with just about anyone and slams her name down beside Hope’s on rooming assignments. (Actually, Pia’s words are “Kelley could get along with a brick wall,” and Kelley takes it as a compliment.)_

_Ali goes down in their qualifier against the Dominican Republic. Kelley knows immediately that she’s out for the Olympics. Pia and Dawn deliver the prognosis at team dinner that night, sans Ali. She’s torn her ACL and MCL, and there’s only a small chance that she’ll make it back for the Olympics. The rest of dinner is quiet, albeit some quiet sobs for Ali and Pia playing a song on guitar to cheer them all up. They all write “liebe” on their arms and send a picture to Ali. Hope catches Kelley after dinner and lets her know that Pia wants to talk to her. That’s the night that Kelley is thrown onto Hope’s backline like a dead rabbit to a pack of wolves. Pia and Hope are both there, saying that they need to find someone to fill in for Kriegs—nobody could ever really replace Ali, one of the best right backs in the world—and they think Kelley is the person for the job._

_Kelley is terrible at first. She’s unconfident, unsure, and looks like a lost puppy dog. Hope offers to stay after training every day to help her, and Becky, Christie, and Buehler all pitch in too. For a solid few nights, Kelley thinks that it’s the hardest thing she has ever done. She can’t deal with one more misstep and a ball sailing past Hope in the goal because she messed up. She can’t hear the harsh bark from between the posts any more—it makes her flinch. Tobin finds her one night when she’s on the balcony with a glass of white wine that someone snuck past Pia, barefoot and shivering as she stares at the full, silvery moon. “They’re all just trying to help,” Tobin reminds her in a soft voice as she takes a seat beside her. “Christie, Becky, Buehler…they all just want to make sure you’re prepared. Hope too. She means well. She believes in you. We all do. You’ll get used to it, her yelling. And soon you won’t even need her calling out your every move. You have to believe in yourself.” Kelley squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn’t want to let Ali down._

_When the Olympics come around, Kelley clocks every single minute as an outside back. She plays all ninety minutes plus stoppage time in every match. The feat makes her feel like she belongs. It’s different in London than it was in Germany or in Vancouver for the qualifiers. Kelley is no longer a newbie, no longer struggling to find her place on the team or fighting to figure out where she should be. It’s funny how things have changed in just one short year. Suddenly she remembers a pep talk Cheney gave her—it’s hard to make it to the national level, and it’s even harder to stay there, but it’s the most rewarding and most amazing and most terribly beautiful thing in the whole world. One day you’re just another call-up, another face, but work hard enough and you’ve got a home in the heart of over twenty women who only want the best for you. When they win the gold medal, Hope streaks down the field just so she and Kelley can chest bump and do the worm. That says it all. Kelley didn’t need to clock a full 540 minutes to reassure her that she’s part of the team—though it does say a lot that she was one of three players to achieve this honor, and that the other two who clocked a full 540 were Hope and Christie. She has her place. She knows her home._

_She also knows she loves Hope Solo._

_From there, Kelley still isn’t quite sure what happened. She knows there were lots of purposeful touches that were pathetically disguised as accidents—sharing a bed during movie night, bumping into each other after showers in the locker room, a wrist held a little longer than necessary on the pitch; plenty of lies shared with the rest of the team—Kelley needed to switch dinner duty with Alex because she had to wash her hair on Tuesdays (Hope was serving dinner on Monday night and Kelley wanted to be the one to help her), Hope and Abby swapped seats on the bus because Hope got motion sickness when she sat in the back row (actually because Kelley always sat in the middle of the bus), Kelley watched Dancing With the Stars because she thought Maks Chmerkovskiy was hot (certainly not because a certain goalkeeper was his partner and danced in scanty clothing every Monday night), Hope stayed late after practice because she needed to block PKs, not because Kelley was staying for conditioning with Ali and Ashlyn who were sure to be off in their own world of denial; and dozens of stolen moments when they thought nobody was looking—Kelley could feel Hope’s eyes burned into the back of her head during a yoga session in the hotel conference room, Hope caught Kelley staring at her from across the breakfast room and sent a hot wink her way, Kelley pulled Hope away during a team outing in Sweden to show her a little coffee shop and got them lost until long after dark._

_When Hope married Jerramy, the whole team had taken it hard. Where there had been teasing and joking in the locker room, it became silent and tense as they all waited for Hope to slink off to the showers before they began whispering about her. “Jerramy Stevens is an actual piece of shit.” “Hope doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into.” “Does she remember that he beat her up the day before their wedding?” “His rap sheet is longer than Abby’s list of caps.” “She’s going to get hurt.” “She made a really stupid, really impulsive, really bad decision.” “He is going to kill her or get her in trouble.” “I’m worried she might actually get in trouble with this one.” The only person who kept completely mum on the subject of Hope and Jerramy (other than Barnie, who literally never said anything bad about anyone) was Kelley. Everyone was a little shocked, considering that Kelley was probably closer to Hope than most of the veterans, but the girl kept her mouth shut and her face even. She didn’t seem worried in the slightest._

_Consequently, Kelley also seemed to be the only one who wasn’t surprised at all when Hope got into a series of legal battles after being with Jerramy for around two years. Suddenly there were domestic abuse allegations and suspensions, and her name was a headline everywhere. There was a time when it was even hard for Tobin and Cheney to believe that maybe none of this was actually Hope’s fault, but Kelley kept the faith and minded her own business. She knew Hope, and in a way she also knew Jerramy—she had never spent more than a few minutes with the guy, and even that was only for team dinners when he would stop in and give Hope a credit card or pull her into the hall for a “talk” that Kelley knew was actually him yelling at her for something that was his problem, not hers—and she knew that Hope would get out of this eventually._

_Kelley was right. Before long, Hope was suspended, but she was also done with the piece of shit known as Jerramy. When she was scared about coming back onto the team after her suspension, she confessed her worries to Kelley over the phone one night._

_“What if they don’t want me back?” she had asked sadly. “I mean, Ashlyn is a lot less flighty, and she’s reliable. She’s doing her job.”_

_“They want you,” Kelley had all but hummed into the phone, distracted by the sun setting over the mountains in France. “Trust me. You’re still the best, and as long as you are they’ll still want you.”_

_“You don’t know that.”_

_“Sure I do. I mean, I want you.” Realizing what she had said, Kelley felt her face grow hot and was quick to correct herself. “I mean, I want you between the goal posts.” (Between my legs, she said in her head.)_

_“But you’re you. Of course you want me back.”_

_“What’s that supposed to mean?”_

_“It means that you need me,” Hope had said, and Kelley had smiled. Hope finally sounded like her old, cocky self again. “It means that you play better when I’m the one behind you, telling you what to do and wiping your ass for you.”_

_“Jerk.”_

_There was a pause as Hope’s insecurities resurfaced again. “Who will I sit with at meals?”_

_“You’ll have me, dummy,” she replied matter-of-factly. “And Carli, of course. And if nothing else, there’s Tobin and Cheney and HAO and Pinoe.” (Kelley had literally named the nicest people on the team, and though they were fortunate enough to not have catty girls who enjoyed drama and gossip, the team was sure to apprehensive about Hope returning. She could be like a grenade sometimes, always ready to go off on the offensive before she had to play defense.)_

_When Hope came back, she had nothing to worry about. The team was perfect. They were all happy to have her back. Jill was a little bit scared of her, to be fair, and Ashlyn was disappointed even though she tried not to be—but they were happy to see their savior back on the pitch. And then Kelley was there, and Hope was trying not to think about how good she looked in blue, and Kelley was pretending not to notice the way Hope whispered in her ear—and that was it. It was then that Kelley knew she was in love with Hope Solo…and had been for quite some time now._

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Seattle is cold and rainy, but Hope doesn’t mind.

She misses the airport bus from the baggage claim to the shuttle park, but she can’t even bring herself to be mad that she has to wait another fifteen minutes for the next one. Instead, she finds an open spot on a bench just outside the terminal and sits down to call Kelley.

“Just a guess—it’s you, just calling to check in?”

Kelley answers on the second ring, and Hope can hear the excitement in her tone.

“Close. I just wanted to tell you that I landed.” Hope’s voice is so sweet and sugary that she almost doesn’t recognize the sound. She swallows hard. “You at your layover?”

“Yep. Changing planes in Phoenix.”

“What’s this I hear about you flying to New York instead of Atlanta? Does Momma O’Hara know this yet?” She digs the toe of her sneaker into a crack in the sidewalk as she speaks, trying not to focus on how much she wants to be in New York with Kelley.

“I’ve gotta get out of there, Hope,” Kelley sighs dramatically. “You stay too long and you’re trapped just like Erin. I love Georgia; I really do. It’ll always be my first home, where I learned to love, where I learned to give and receive the most important gift. But I can’t stay forever. I’m meant to be by the water somewhere, playing soccer and raising my son and loving you. Until then, I’m where I’m supposed to be. I guess a part of me will always miss Georgia, though.”

Hope presses her phone between her cheek and her shoulder as she gets onto the bus that has pulled up curbside. “You’re allowed to miss things, Kell, even when you’re where you’re meant to be.” She knows this to be true. She has missed Kelley every day for over half a year while knowing that she can’t have her until they are both in a place to love each other. “And who knows—maybe one day we’ll be where we are supposed to be, living by the water somewhere and raising babies and playing soccer and loving each other.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The days go on, and autumn arrives in New York City under the codename “winter.”

Rather than letting the days of grey skies and freezing, slushy rain ruin their fun, Tobin and Kelley keep busy by baby-proofing Kelley’s apartment. Kelley reminds her that the baby won’t come out walking and ready to pull the TV off the wall or a bookshelf down on top of himself, but Tobin read somewhere that you should always have the house baby-proofed beforehand, so they spend two days putting in outlet covers and anchoring heavy things to the walls. When they complete that project, they move on to the task of making Kelley’s tiny office space into a nursery.

“We can’t take everything out of here,” Kelley complains. “I need my office! Where else am I supposed to pay bills and answer my email and conference call Jill?!”

Tobin shoots her a look that is clear from even across the room. “You never answer your emails, and your electricity has been shut off several times because you forgot to pay the bill.”

“I pay my bills!” she insists.

“You don’t need an office.” She is already unhooking Kelley’s MacBook and preparing to carry it to the kitchen. Kelley is left with no choice but to give in and let Tobin have the satisfaction of being right.

Slowly but surely, the nursery comes together, and a few weeks later Kelley and Tobin are both pleased with the outcome. There have been a few setbacks—they couldn’t agree on a paint color for the walls (Tobin picked out a dreamy grey that reminds her of the ocean on a cloudy day; Kelley was adamant that white opens up a room) and it turns out that cribs come with “some assembly required”—and they have fought like an old married couple over a couple minor things, but it’s the end of October and both have to admit that they are out of time to be nit-picky. Kelley is surprised that she let Tobin have so much say in her son’s nursery—after all, it’s not like Tobin helped make the baby or anything. In fact, all Tobin has done is support her unconditionally, the way a sister should—and for that, Kelley is eternally grateful.

“We done good, my friend,” Tobin sighs as she slings an arm over Kelley’s shoulders.

Kelley nods, leaning against the door frame. She stares at the walls (they ended up going with the grey Tobin picked out, and it’s a lot more inviting than she thought it would be—once again, Tobin has the satisfaction of being right) and the white area rug that covers the old, dark-stained wooden floors. “It has character. I like it.”

“Of course it does. The two best friends there ever were created it,” Tobin replies, a far-off look twinkling in her eyes.

With another nod, Kelley has to agree with her friend. Tobin definitely has the artistic knack and creative spark that she lacks—the tiny space is looking like it’s straight from a magazine. The black and white photos printed on canvas and centered on the walls above the crib and changing table were a perfect addition. Of course, it helps that they’re things that remind Kelley of love: the two of them years back when they played for FC Gold Pride, facing the ocean with their surfboards tucked beneath their arms; a soccer ball and Under Armour boot on a grassy field; the farm back in Georgia, complete with the old white farm house and its sagging front stoop; the lake behind her home; an aerial view of the stadium from the World Cup; a portrait of her team celebrating the World Cup win with emotion that is unable to be named or captured accurately in anything but a memory.

“I think we should reward ourselves with a date.”

Kelley looks to Tobin in surprise. “Did you just say something?”

“I thought you said it,” Tobin answers, maintaining her calm, even voice.

Slowly, they both turn around to see Hope standing behind them. She isn’t quite dressed for the weather—it’s still a lot more mild in Seattle than it is on the East Coast, and she’s wearing a thin Nike tee shirt, black leggings, and tennis shoes that are, as usual, untied—and she looks like she could fall over any minute now out of pure exhaustion. It had to have been hell trying to get a flight out to New York City when snow was dumping across most of the Midwest and a lot of New England, but Hope had done it. There is a hint of satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “I thought about it for a while, and the more I thought the more I realized that you two living alone together probably meant a lot of takeout food and trashy rom coms. I figured I’d come save you both from total insanity and—“

Before Hope can finish her sentence, Kelley interrupts. “Great! Dinner in half an hour. Put on something warm!”

The sky is pitch-black by seven o’clock. Kelley, Hope, and Tobin take the long way to Tobin’s favorite restaurant, The Brewhouse. (Kelley says this is on purpose, but they all know it’s because she’s terrible with directions and refuses to admit that she has no clue where she’s going.) Bundled in wool pea coats, hats, gloves, scarves, and boots, the cold wind still bites at every exposed inch of skin. Their breath hangs in the freezing air as they laugh and talk excitedly over each other, trying to breathe a few week’s worth of time into one sentence. Behind them, their winter boots leave a trail in the frozen slush on the sidewalk. It’s a cold night, but their laughter and friendship keeps them warm. They walk beneath street lights and gaze into shop windows as they go along, admiring Halloween displays and laughing about the Christmas decorations a novelty store already has up.

Finally, they reach The Brewhouse. When Kelley swings the door open, a warm gust of air greets them. A plummet of smoke rises from the chimney atop the roof, and Hope can already smell the sweet smell of bread and beer. The hostess asks if they want a booth or a table—Hope is quick to answer that they want a booth—and Kelley smiles as they are led deeper into the restaurant. Overhead, the lighting is dim and gives off a happy mood. Most of the tables are filled with families bundled up and enjoying the warmth of a night out. The sight makes Kelley’s heart feel full. They are seated near the fireplace at a deep oak-colored booth, and Tobin slides in on the right so her left arm doesn’t continuously knock into Kelley’s elbow while they eat—something they have figured out in the weeks Tobin has been in New York is that Tobin and Kelley eating on the same side of the table does not work—and Hope and Kelley take the left.

Throughout dinner, Kelley finds herself laughing as she chews, trying not to choke and unable to stop the tears that spill over. Somehow she had forgotten how genuinely funny Hope can be. It takes her by surprise, and she finds herself doubled over in the booth, her head resting on the edge of the table as she laughs so hard her entire body aches and she thinks she might actually wet her pants. Another thing she had forgotten until Hope was in New York is just how hard it is to keep her hands to herself. She finds her palms on Hope’s thigh as they eat, their fingers laced while they wait for their hot chocolates, her wrist against Hope’s hip as they wait for the ticket. By the time they are ready to head back into the cold, she’s ready to push her toward the bathroom instead of the door.

For the first time in a long time, Kelley falls asleep in Hope’s arms.

It feels more wonderful than Christmas morning.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Hope is on a run when she gets the text.

She’s thirty minutes deep into Central Park, trying to forget the fact that her nose is running and her eyes are stinging and that her thermal leggings, Under Armour turtleneck, windbreaker, and ear warmer are not warm enough when she feels her phone buzz deep in the pocket on the inside of her second jacket. Slightly annoyed, she reaches down the front of her outer layer, and by the time she reaches her cellphone it’s vibrating constantly. Caller ID flashes with a selfie Tobin took on Hope’s phone during the World Cup. The only real urgency Hope feels is due to the fact that Tobin is currently on Kelley watch.

“What is it, Tobin? I can’t feel my face and I think my fingers have frostbite so let’s make this quick.”

“Bro.”

(Hope despises being called “bro.” In fact, “bro” has been an off-limits name for years, right alongside “dude,” “honey,” and “Hopey.”)

“Tobin, I swear to God…”

“Alright, alright, take it easy. Just thought you would like to know that Kell is in labor.”

A switch goes off in Hope’s chest. She makes a quick right turn and runs until she reaches sidewalk again. “I’m on my way. Don’t let anything happen without me there.”

Tobin seems to find this rather hilarious. “Okay, I’ll be sure to tell the baby to come on your time, not his.”

Hope, on the other hand, is not at all amused. She ends the call and stands on the sidewalk with her thumb out until a yellow taxi cab finally stops in front of her.

‘Where to today, Miss?”

(Another name that has been banned is “miss,” but she ignores it.)

“Mount Sinai Hospital. I’ll give you two hundred bucks if you can get me there in fifteen minutes.”

Apparently fifteen minutes is almost too late. At least, it is if you ask Kelley. They’re there for another six hours before anything even happens worth noting. Hope is still dressed for the cold and finds herself shedding layers as the day wears on. She and Tobin distract Kelley through contractions as they walk the halls, telling stories about the national team that make her laugh until she forgets that she’s hurting. Christie eventually comes by to visit and brings Hope and Tobin some coffee as well as a large pizza that they scarf down in front of Kelley, who complains that she can’t have anything to eat until the “monster” is outside her body. She stays for a while and lets Tobin and Kelley both nap while she plays cards with Hope. Reece and Rylie get out of school at 4, and she has to leave to pick them up, but she promises that they’ll all come by and visit later.

Tobin and Hope call the O’Haras in Georgia as well as Brandon, and Kelley calls Jill and sends a text to the team. They all report reactions—Karen is crying and panicked that she won’t be there in time, which she almost definitely won’t but Tobin told her she would if she left RIGHT NOW; Brandon is interning in Chelsea on big case this semester and will be there in ten minutes tops; Erin wants to Skype; Jerry wants her to remember to breathe and that it’ll all be worth it. Jill squeals into the phone for thirty seconds before sending her best—Kelley hopes that maybe this will make Jill like her more. The team sends a vary of curse words and excited well-wishes. Probably the most excited is Cheney, who is currently trying to battle through another round of baby fever and come out on the winning side.

Hope doesn’t want to admit it, but they’re running out of things to do when Kelley suddenly hits the “nurse call” button about six times in rapid succession.

“Everything okay, Squirrel?” Tobin asks nonchalantly as she flips through the Nike Winter 2017 catalog.

“Yeah, I just think that I’m going to have this baby in the next five minutes.”

Ten minutes later, Hope feels ready to pass out and Tobin looks like she would rather go to hell than be in this room a minute longer, but there’s a chubby-cheeked baby on Kelley’s chest and they’re all crying and it’s finally over. He has Kelley’s nose and Brandon’s lips and soft brown hair, and he already has a good set of lungs on him. He doesn’t have a name yet, but Hope already knows he’s perfect. Jealousy flickers in her gut for a beat or two when Kelley hands him to Brandon and coos, “Meet your daddy,” but it melts away exactly thirty seconds later when the baby is placed in her own arms and Kelley looks at her knowingly. “Want to meet the only person in the world I love more than I love you, Hope?”

The next few hours feel like a blur. A lot happens—there are quite a few visitors, lots of nurses in and out, and food is delivered courtesy of Ashlyn, who is in New York for a Nike shoot. It’s not until ten or eleven o’clock that Hope is finally able to settle down onto the queen-sized bed with Kelley and feel the exhaustion fill her bones. Tobin has long-since crashed in the recliner, and Brandon’s big trial starts the next day so he headed to his apartment for a full night of sleep. Hope figures that Kelley is asleep with the nameless baby in her arms, but she has not let him out of her arms since the last visitor came and went. He’s been wrapped in a soft swaddling blanket and nestled against her chest for an hour or two now, his soft cheeks pink and peeking out from the blankets.

“You two wake up,” Kelley says plainly, and Tobin jumps in her sleep. She has to blink for a few minutes before she is fully ready to listen, but Kelley finally nods at her and then at Hope. “Brandon and I decided on his name.” Tobin and Hope both lean forward expectantly. “Powell. Powell Edmund O’Hara.”

Tobin’s eyes are filled with tears as she smiles broadly at Kelley. “Powell, like after me? As in, like…Tobin Powell Heath?”

“There’s no one I’d rather name him after. I only pray he’ll grow up to half as kind, compassionate, loving, faithful, and strong as his momma’s best friend.”

Hope, on the other hand, looks confused. “And Edmund, like…Chronicles of Narnia Edmund?”

“Well…kind of. I mean, yes and no. Edmund is a character we discussed a lot, sure. He’s a round personality. But I think it’s more than Chronicles-of-Narnia-Edmund. He’s clever, extremely intelligent. His dark side and depth remain even after he has been redeemed. I guess Edmund reminds me of you, Hope. He feels like a lost lamb, like you said, and his experience with Aslan changed him almost completely. He finally found what he was looking for. I feel like you found it too, Hope, but…so did I. So yes, Edmund like Chronicles of Narnia Edmund. But also Edmund like Hope. And also Edmund like defender.”

“Why O’Hara and not Wilder?” Tobin finally asks.

Kelley shrugs. “My last name is O’Hara, and I’ll be the one raising him, mostly. He’ll know Brandon, of course, and he’ll be his daddy. But we agreed that it would be confusing for a little kid to have a different last name than his mom when his dad is not the one he’s always with. Also…because I want Hope to be in his life a lot, and if one day we get married and have more babies he’s not left hanging with a different last name than everyone.”

There is a moment of silence as the three friends sit on Kelley’s queen sized hospital bed and admire the Halloween baby who is now known as Powell.

Hope swears she has never been so in love with a person so tiny.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The wedding is in March under the shade of a Georgia pine.

In the front row, Karen sits with Baby Powell on her lap. He’s wearing the pastel blue linen onesie and Sperrys that Kelley and Brandon picked out, his cheeks weighing his head down and his lips pouting. Beside her, Hope’s mom Judy sits in a pantsuit she is certain to have purchased just for the occasion. If not for Kelley, Judy would have never contacted Hope again. It just wasn’t the way things worked with the Solo family—when there was a falling-out, it stayed that way forever unless someone else did something about it—but Kelley was not about to get married without Hope’s mom there too. Their teammates are there too, taking up an entire four rows behind the family. Tobin stands at Kelley’s side and Carli is next to Hope, and Tobin doesn’t point it out, but Carli is crying. Ali thinks it’s the most beautiful wedding she has ever seen. Hope and Kelley are both in white dresses, and in a typical fashion Tobin is not wearing shoes. In the second row, Jill takes about six thousand photos with her digital camera.

After the ceremony, there is a reception on the lake. Karen and some ladies from the church cooked up a good Southern feast. She had been on edge stressing about the food for days, but it’s a labor of love. Brandon and his new girlfriend Amber are there, and Kelley has never been so happy for good little frat boy Brandon in her life. When the father-daughter dance song comes on, Kelley grabs Hope’s wrist and goes pale.

“I told them to cut this part out,” she whispers frantically. “I said that we didn’t need it.”

Hope shakes her head and smiles. “Go dance with your dad, Wife.”

Reluctantly, Kelley joins her dad and they two-step to Neon Moon by Brooks & Dunn. As the first chorus hits, Paul—Hope’s goalkeeper coach for years—appears in front of her. “I know your father wanted to be here for this moment, and I’m a lousy substitute, but I also know he would have wanted you to have this dance.”

Never in her life has Kelley felt so much love.

They are sent off under a full moon in Dan’s old Land Rover with their teammates waving sparklers after them, cheering and promising to take good care of Powell while they spend a week in Hawaii.

Family is this, Hope thinks—to love each other and take care of each other come what may.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Their first real fight is over something so stupid that Kelley doesn’t even remember what it was fifteen minutes later as she cries on the porch.

It started out small. They have just returned from a friendly against Mexico in Carson, and Kelley got the start for the first time since Powell was born. Hope played all ninety minutes in goal, but she didn’t have to leave her line of scrimmage one time and didn’t have a single shot on goal. In the time that Kelley and Tobin and Morgan and Alex were down the field being goal-scoring machines—suddenly Kelley is scoring left and right even as an outside back—Hope could have taken a nap or written a novel or crocheted an entire sweater. She’s not complaining about the fact that they won 13 to nothing, but just one good save would not have been too much to ask. Still, Kelley is over the moon and can’t stop talking about how awesome the game was. Hope lets her have her moment, and she’s proud of her wife anyway.

While Kelley continues to rave and obsess over the game, Hope starts on dinner—salmon and rice with steamed vegetables, a summer favorite and perfect for her to do since she’s apparently going to cook dinner alone. She points this out to Kelley, and that’s what starts the fight. One thing leads to another. It starts as dinner, and then Hope is bringing up the time in April that Kelley didn’t fold laundry and they had to wear dirty clothes to church, and Kelley mentions the time that Hope was forty-five minutes late to their dinner date, and then they’re full-on fighting. Kelley is a yeller. She fights with her words, throwing them around like knives and getting more and more worked up the longer Hope stays calm. Hope has learned enough now that she is no longer reactionary and flighty. Instead, she forces herself to remain quiet and strong with her jaw clenched and breathing rate increasing rapidly. She’s afraid that if she speaks, an “I hate you” will slip out and she’ll regret it forever.

Half an hour later, Hope opens the front door as the sun sets and comes over to where Kelley is curled up on the porch swing that Hope so willingly put on her front deck in Seattle to make it feel more like home for her wife. She slips her arms around the small of Kelley’s back and whispers in her ear that she loves her and is sorry.

She spends the rest of the night apologizing to Kelley and kissing her doubt and anger away.

It’s not always easy, but it’s a good life.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Hope knows exactly what happened before she hits the ground.

It’s October of 2018, and the World Cup group draw is coming up. Hope is going for one last World Cup, and she’s working her butt off to make sure she is mentally and physically ready. She and Kelley have been training with the team in Carson for a few weeks when Hope pushes her body too far.

Carli fires a volley at her in the last five minutes of scrimmage in practice, and Hope sees it coming at the upper 90. She’s certain she can save it—she always has before—and takes two steps to the right before firing herself into the air. As planned, the ball hits her straight in the hands like a target, and she pulls it tightly to her chest before she crashes down—hard. She isn’t quite sure what everyone else sees, but there’s a collective shout from the field, and Kelley, Ali, and JJ are by her side within a few seconds. Her first thought is why the hell she felt the need to go for one last World Cup when she had what she wanted—she has a wife and a beautiful son and she has the win that she waited her entire career for. Her second thought is that she has broken her collarbone and maybe torn something, maybe her labrum again.

“I’m sorry, Hope,” the team doctor says solemnly as he looks at her shoulder an hour or two later. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

She sits in silence for ten seconds, deciding whether or not she wants to maintain her composure or allow herself to feel like she’s just lost the world. She had known, of course, that this was not going to end well. It never did when she couldn’t just let things end on a high note. She could have let it be, like she and Kelley had agreed, and she could have gone out on top as the number one goalkeeper women’s soccer had known. It wasn’t like she and Kelley hadn’t thought about it—Hope retiring. Long distance wasn’t good for either of them. Half the time they were flying back and forth between Seattle and Jersey, and when they were together it was normally for training with the national team. They had talked about it a lot, in fact—Hope could have retired and gone out a millionaire. They could have bought the cute house Kelley liked in California, seen if she could be traded to play for FC Galactica in Carson. But Hope is stubborn, just like Kelley, and she said that she wanted to have just one more World Cup.

The pain in her shoulder takes over angrily and she allows herself to suck in a harsh breath. A loan tear slides down her cheek, and she isn’t sure if it’s because she’s angry or because she’s hurting or because she knows her career is over.

Soon the rest of her team is comforting her as they file into the athletic training room, telling her that she is still their number one, that she’s still the best, that they’ll be family forever. They tell her that she could coach or work in broadcast or join the staff as the goalkeeping coach. Hope will never tell them that she has always seen joining the staff as a coach after you’ve played on it for most of your life is something that the washed-up players with career ending injuries always do. They try desperately to hold on to their glory years. She doesn’t say it because it doesn’t seem half bad. Boxxy and Christie and Abby have all retired and remain huge faces in the women’s soccer world, coaching and advocating and helping out wherever they can.

Kelley hangs around after everyone else, and she does everything that Hope wishes everyone else had done. She doesn’t tell her “I told you so” or “you can still be a part of the team!” Instead, she kisses her and touches her injured shoulder gingerly before she pushes Hope’s hair out of her face and says, “So what is your Plan B, Hope Solo?”

Hope thinks that her Plan B is to follow Kelley across the world and spend the rest of her life behind the scenes, watching her wife kick ass and become a staple in every household just like Hope’s once was. It sounds like a pretty damn good life to her.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

It’s loud—almost too loud—but Hope doesn’t care.

She’s standing in a sea of red, white, and blue and she can feel the buzz from the crowd reverberating in her chest. From Abby’s arms in the stands, twenty-two-month-old Powell squirms and continues to chirp for Kelley—“Momma! Momma! Momma!” over and over again. Karen and Dan stand beside her in “O’Hara” jerseys. Karen’s face is painted—Rylie Rampone insisted upon it—and Dan is on his third beer. (The game hasn’t even started yet.)

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, YOUR 2019 UNITED STATES WOMEN’S WORLD CUP TEAM!!!” booms the announcer over the deafening hum of the stadium.

From her spot on the sidelines, Hope’s eyes are icy blue. Her jaw is clenched tightly in focus and a severity that only Kelley really understands. She pushes up the sleeves of her red Nike shirt and crosses her arms over her chest, staring against the sun with narrow eyes that graze over the field before landing on where the team is coming out of the locker room, escorted by small kids who can barely match stride with the twenty-three woman roster.

“IN GOAL…NUMBER ONE…ASHLYN HARRIS.”

Ashlyn’s hair catches in the sun and gleams golden as she waves dazzlingly at the crowd of over one hundred thousand. Hope’s heart soars. Ashlyn is her goalkeeper. She’s her number one. She’s her friend, her student, her replacement—and Hope could not be prouder. Ashlyn had big shoes to fill, and the girl had not only filled them but—in Hope’s opinion—gone up a size. She’s been unstoppable all of the World Cup thus far, and she’s been their driving force to make it to the final. As her GK coach, Hope can’t help but feel her lungs burn while she cheers for her. It’s going to be a good game.

“AT LEFT BACK…NUMBER FIVE…KEEEELLLLEEEEYYYY OOOOOO’HAAAARRRRAAAA.”

And for as proud as she is of Ashlyn, Hope is almost brought to her knees as Kelley waves from the pitch, casting a wink Hope’s way when she spots her with Jill and Dawn on the sidelines. She’s still floored by how much she loves Kelley.

Before Hope can fully catch her breath, the team has joined the coaching staff on the sidelines. Warmups are thrown off, nerves are rising, and available subs have been turned in. As they break from the huddle, Hope catches Kelley by the wrist and pulls her in for a good luck pep talk.

“If you score a goal, I’ll let you score on me tonight,” she whispers playfully, patting Kelley on the butt as she pulls back in surprise.

Then Kelley has resumed her normal confidence and calls to Hope as she jogs backward onto the pitch, “All game, baby, all game!”

When three short whistles blow, Kelley is the first off the field, sprinting toward Hope at alarming speed and flinging herself into her arms. “What do I get for a hat trick?”

And when Hope laughs, giddy from the fact that the United States Women’s National Team has just grabbed another World Cup win and the fact that Kelley scored three of their four goals, Kelley swears she has never heard a sound quite as beautiful as the one that Hope Solo makes when she tosses her head back and laughs.

She wants to spend all of eternity making sure that she sees this sight and hears that music at least once a day for the rest of her life.


	18. could not ask for more.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> I'm sorry this is slightly anti-climatic and also very late. I have been working a lot since school is out now, and my job is very demanding. I couldn't bring myself to write more conflict for Ali and Ashlyn. They deserve a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so comes the end of an era. (Or a story, whatever.) This starts around March, after the championship and time to prepare for a new season. Though it seems the interest in this has died off, thank you to all who have stuck with me through it. It hasn’t been easy, and sometimes I have wanted to quit and only write for myself, but I had to finish what I started. A lot of hard work went into this, and I’m so glad that I have been able to write for you guys. Thank you again, incredible humans. You are all exceptional people.

The door slams with a heavy thud, and the noise bounces off the bare walls with a finality that makes Ali’s heart drop.

“It has a lot of potential,” Ashlyn says slowly and generously as she drops her bags on the old, carpeted floors.

Ali thinks that “potential” is sugarcoating their current housing situation. The house she had fallen in love with was nothing like the pictures. Other than the beachy blue exterior of the two-story home on a quiet road by Newport Beach and the yard—big, green, potential for a swingset or mini soccer goals when Beckett gets older, a private path to the beach, an outdoor shower, and an outdoor kitchen area that needs serious remodeling—they are in over their heads on renovations. In fact, Ali wonders if it would be cheaper to just completely gut the house than to try to remodel it room-by-room when she is very pregnant (very irritable) and Ash starts training with FC Galactica in three days.

“It looks like a shitstorm,” she replies plainly, setting Beckett down gently on his feet and letting him stomp around in his Nike Frees.

Ashlyn shrugs. “It’ll look better when we make it home.”

For a few moments, Ali is quiet and doesn’t look at her. When she turns back to face Ash, her cinnamon eyes are brimming with tears and her lower lip is trembling. “It’s not home, though, Ashlyn. Home is D.C. This?!” She sweeps her arms widely around the empty house to gesture at the bare walls and ugly carpet. “This is not home. How is this supposed to be home?!”

Ashlyn buries into her from behind and nuzzles her face into the crook of Ali’s neck. “Was it not you who told me that home is not a place? That home is a feeling? Were you not the person who said that home is wherever you are with me and Beckett and surrounded by love?” Weakly, Ali nods. “Well…I’m here. And Beckett is here. And soon our daughter will be too. And you are surrounded by so much love that I don’t think it should be allowed. So I don’t know about you, but I think we are home.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ashlyn stares around the empty living room as golden light floods onto the floor.

Her heart is heavier than she thought it would be. After all, she and Ali had moved across the country to play for a new football club in Carson, California. They have bought the house that Ali had fallen in love with on the beach. Together, they will be playing under Mia Hamm. Ashlyn can spend her downtime surfing and sitting on the beach with the people she loves most in this world. Ali is already talking about getting season passes to Disneyland, though Ash needs a little bit more convincing before this one is a go. There will be an In-N-Out burger within two blocks of their house, as Ash points out in front of Dawn, who promptly takes a moment to ask everyone how the diet plan she gave them to follow is going. Beckett’s asthma is expected to improve. Living near the coast improves quality of life, as Kyle has said enthusiastically to her five or six times in the past hour. Ashlyn adores the ocean. She never feels more at home or more like herself than she does at the water’s edge.

This is why she doesn’t understand the heaviness in her chest as she twirls the keys to the new house around her fingers and paces the empty living room.

Maybe it’s because she shared D.C. with Ali for years, since before either of them thought anything of it, since before Ali left for Germany, since before the NWSL existed and since they had been just roommates. Her first memories of the place involve Ali spilling a gallon of milk on the kitchen carpet—there had been carpet at first—and the entire house smelling like rotten dairy for weeks after until Ash came home from the gym and found Ali wearing demolition goggles and ripping up the padding and carpet while gagging behind a surgical mask. It was where Ashlyn had brought Ali after her Olympic 2012 dreams came crashing down after a tackle and a plant in a qualifier they won by a landslide. It is where Ali had first kissed Ashlyn—everyone thought it would be the other way around, but it was Ali…it was always Ali. It was the place that they first fought, where they discussed marriage, where they have shared their lives together. They brought Beckett home from the hospital to that house. Ashlyn replays Beckett taking his shaky first steps on this very floor, achieving three shaky steps forward before tumbling into Ali’s waiting arms.

For someone who had been so reluctant to live in Washington, D.C. to begin with, Ashlyn is having a rather hard time letting it go. Despite what she had thought over five years ago, the city has been good to her. She has learned more about herself, life, love, family, soccer, and strength in this place than she could have ever imagined. Her time spent in D.C. had been nothing short of life-changing. If not for facing the struggles of starting a new life in a new place with a new roommate she didn’t think she could live with (because at first Ali seemed way too high strung and chatty and apathetic, which Ashlyn now laughs at) she would have never made it this far. As her grandma has always said, life never looks the way think it will, but it always ends up being better than anything you could have planned.

“Ash?”

Ali’s soft voice echoes in the empty room as she comes to join Ashlyn. “Thinking about everything that we shared in D.C.?”

“Yeah.” Ashlyn offers a small smile with her nod. They’re both thinking, reminiscing, and wondering what will change now that they live in California. “When we were just strangers and then just friends and then just people who hated each other and then just us, two people in love.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and paces in front of Ash. “Want to know a secret?”

Ashlyn grimaces. For as long as she’s known Ali, she isn’t sure that she does want to know the secret. At the same time, it’s Ali. She nods.

“When you first moved in, I thought two things. The first was that you were childish, cocky, and probably the most narcissistic person I had ever met. I’m glad I was wrong. You are sometimes a little childish, and you are very sure of yourself,” Ali says with emphasis on ‘very.’ “But you are the most kind, caring, big-hearted, compassionate person I know.”

The playful grimace remains on Ash’s face. “Okay, what’s the second thing?”

“Oh, the second thing?” Ali spins on her heels and breaks into a giant smile. “The second thing I thought is that you were the most beautiful human I had ever laid eyes on and I was in love with you already.”

“You knew, even then?”

“Of course I knew. I don’t know that it was as straightforward as being in love with you. I mean, I had never had a girlfriend before, and I was fairly sheltered to most of the world other than soccer and my family. I knew there was something you had, and I wanted to know what that something was. I wanted to have what you had that made you so different from anyone else I had ever known. Even when I left for Germany, when we weren’t together, when I thought we would never be together again…it was you. And I knew. I knew all along that it was you.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“Howdy, neighbor!”

Ashlyn instinctively jumps about five feet in the air and whirls around to figure out which of her annoying new neighbors is calling out to her at seven in the morning before she has had her coffee and when she is wearing sweatpants, a tee shirt that she’s 99% certain is inside out, and last night’s makeup. For God’s sake, the sun is barely up and she’s really only outside to take out the trash because she forgot that the garbage truck comes on Tuesday mornings at 7:15. She can feel the grouchiness in her bones.

They have been in California for a week now, and Ashlyn can’t say it’s any easier. It’s quite an adjustment. She got verbally harassed when she forgot her “green sacks” grocery shopping and had to use the plastic Target sacks she had found in her Jeep. The trash service comes regularly—there isn’t a community dumpster at the end of the cul de sac where everyone on the street takes their garbage. The weather is pleasant all the time, and afternoons make her feel like she needs a nap because it’s so nice. She and Ali have hired a contractor to remodel, and he’s working one room at a time so they still have a place to live. The problem there is that Ali is home all day while Ashlyn is at practice and gets more than annoyed by repeatedly having to move Beckett out from underfoot of the workers. There’s also a constant hammering sound of demolishing the kitchen. By the time Ash gets home in the evenings, Ali is moody and tired and bossy. Add to this the fact that they have yet to meet their neighbors, and Ashlyn wishes she had stayed in D.C. because surfing is not worth the wrath of nine-months-pregnant Ali.

At 5:15, long before the sun rose, Ashlyn had felt a knee jabbing into her rib cage and a small finger poking her in the face. She had blinked sleepily until Beckett came into focus. Upon asking him what he was doing up early, he had stage-whispered something about needing juice and to potty. He has been up ever since, begging to “play suh-side” (outside) and go “suhfin wif Mama.” Going to take out the trash is all Ashlyn can do to keep her sanity in check, and it’s only 7 in the morning. A displeased scowl is all she can offer this early. She swings her gaze left to right, trying to find where the voice came from.

“Over here!”

Ashlyn swivels on the heels of her bare feet and stares until she can finally make out Kelley O’Hara standing by the mailbox. “What the hell is Kelley O’Hara-Solo doing back from her honeymoon and standing in my driveway in California?”

Kelley breaks into a broad grin and jogs to meet Ashlyn on the front steps. “I’m helping Tobin move. She’s your neighbor.”

Behind Kelley, Ashlyn hears Hope directing Tobin and Alex as to where furniture needs to go from the U-Haul to the house. “Tobin Heath is my neighbor?”

“Yep.”

“And she’s living in this house? The same Tobin Heath who hates having her name tied to a house and prefers to have no responsibilities including but not limited to a new driver’s license, license plates on her car, rent or electricity to pay, and nothing to ground her to a place for more than a month or two?”

“Well, let’s not get too ahead of ourselves here. She’s renting, not buying, and she’s set it up so her rent money and the cost of electricity, water, and trash comes out of her bank account automatically on the first of every month. The only things she has to actually remember are to lock her doors and renew her lease if she decides to stay in Carson.”

Ashlyn feels herself break into a huge grin. “But Tobin Powell Heath is settling down.”

Kelley nods dramatically and drops her voice to a low whisper. “Don’t tell her I told you this, but she’s in looovvveeeee.”

“Well, duh she’s in love. She loves the water. It actually makes sense that she’d want to live here. It’s going to be a good team in time—great, even—and she can surf every day. If she works hard enough, it might not even feel like she’s confined by city limit signs or her name on a lease.”

With an eye roll that is one hundred percent something she has picked up from Hope, Kelley sighs frustratedly and leans in to whisper again. “No, dummy—she’s in love with a dude.”

Unconvinced, Ashlyn crosses her arm over her chest and cockily shifts all her weight to one hip. “False. Tobin loves Tobin, and Tobin loves soccer, and Tobin loves God, and Tobin loves her family, and Tobin loves surfing. That’s about all the room Tobin has in her life for love. She has never seemed attracted to anyone. She’s always off in the clouds dreaming about one of two things: soccer or the ocean. For as long as I’ve known her, she hasn’t had a boyfriend or a girlfriend or seemed interested in even entertaining the idea of marriage. I don’t believe you.”

Kelley flashes her an overconfident smirk and looks at the watch on her wrist. “Don’t believe me, do ya? We’ll see about that.” With this, she begins counting down from 5. On the count of one, a beautiful old Jeep Wrangler pulls into the driveway of Tobin’s new house and parks behind the U-Haul and Hope’s Toyota. “That’s him.”

From just beside the privacy fence, Ashlyn and Kelley spy on their friend and her supposed boyfriend. Ashlyn watches as Tobin, who is helping Hope carry the coffee table from the trailer to the living room, lets Alex take her spot and jogs to greet the newcomer to the moving party. He has Servando with him, and Kelley mentions something about the two men being best friends from the time they were in elementary school. At first nothing seems to different. Ashlyn hears Tobin’s calm, even voice call out to him with a friendly “hey, dude, we could use some help over here.” That’s the only exchange she offers to begin with. Servando and his buddy take the coffee table from Hope and Alex, and Tobin disappears back into the U-Haul to get something else to carry in. Ashlyn notes that the only thing out of the ordinary here is that Tobin is using Sydney’s old furniture from before she got married—it’s been in storage for years now—and that it is most likely because Tobin doesn’t have furniture of her own, nor is she interested in spending money on any now.

Servando and Unknown Friend emerge from the house a matter of seconds later, dusting their hands off on their shorts. Hope and Alex double up on a king-sized mattress and wave off any offered help from either men, and Tobin jumps down from the lift on the U-Haul a few moments later, landing smoothly on her feet and pushing a few stray strands of hair off her forehead. She squints against the sun for a few minutes as she takes in her new neighborhood and then turns to the man who drove up with Servando. With a broad grin that Ashlyn has only ever seen when she’s on the pitch, surfing, or with the people she loves most in the world, Tobin goes in for a hug. Normally, Tobin goes for knuckle bumps or polite head nods, sometimes a quick side hug, but this time she fully embraces the guy. They stay that way for a few beats, bear-hugging. Her head is resting against his broad chest, and Ashlyn recognizes the look in both pairs of eyes that they are in love.

“Oh shit,” Ashlyn giggles in a low whisper as they duck beneath the fence again. “Tobs has a boyfriend!”

Kelley nods emphatically and begins pulling her toward Tobin’s yard. “Dude, what did I tell ya?! Tobin’s in love!”

As the duo crosses over into the patchy grass behind the house Tobin is renting, Tobin releases from the hug for a quick kiss. Alex catches their eyes before they can cat call or tease her and sends them a quick shake of her head as a warning.

“Mornin’, neighbor,” Ashlyn greets good naturedly, completely forgetting the fact that her shirt is still inside out and it’s still early as hell. “Who’s this?”

Tobin nods quickly and keeps her calm, even tone like she introduces the team to boyfriends every day and this is no big deal when the truth is everyone thought Tobin wasn’t interested in dating or marriage whatsoever. “Right. Ash, Jett; Jett, Ash.”

Ashlyn spends a few seconds admiring Jett and assesses that if Tobin Heath even has a type, he definitely fits it. He drives an old turquoise blue Jeep that looks like it’s straight off the set of Elvis’s Hawaii movie. There are surf racks on the top. He’s tall, tanned brown, strong and bronzed by hours beneath the sun. There’s a simple leather band around his wrist that has “PSALM 93:4” stamped onto it, and it looks rather worn. He’s dressed in a plain white v-neck shirt and colorful swim trunks, and as far as Ashlyn can see he doesn’t have any shoes on. His thick golden hair is grown out to nearly his shoulders and tossed into a casual bun. For a moment, Ashlyn allows herself to be envious of how effortlessly this guy can pull off the surfer look. He’s probably born and raised in California.

“Nice to meet you, Jett,” she finally says with a bit more flirt and smugness to her tone that she’d like to come across. Her cheeks flush pink as her eyes flicker to where Hope stands sending her a look that warns her about intruding on Tobin’s first real “grown up” relationship. “I guess we’re neighbors, Tobs.”

Tobin nods half-heartedly, her mind obviously somewhere else. “Yeah, guess so.” She bites her lips as she takes a few steps back and observes the palm trees that line the path to her carport. “The hammock can go there, Alex.”

Alex and Kelley immediately fetch an ENO hammock from the back seat of Jett’s pickup truck and head to hang it up where Tobin instructs them. Hope and Servando close the door of the U-Haul and latch it shut, leaving Ashlyn standing stunned in front of Jett. Something about Tobin having a boyfriend feels unreal to her—it doesn’t feel that hard to believe or swallow, it just feels different, like the feeling she got when all her college friends started getting married and she felt too young to even consider such a commitment.

“ASHLYN MICHELLE HARRIS.”

From where Ashlyn stands in Tobin’s driveway, she squeezes her eyes shut and cringes. Ali’s awake, and she’s been spotted hanging out with the neighbors instead of making breakfast or getting Beckett out of the bathroom so she can shower. Kelley freezes for a beat before doubling over in laughter and making a comment about how Ashlyn is “whipped.” Hope just smiles knowingly and takes the box Ashlyn is carrying, motioning her toward her own home. And Tobin pays her no mind, her eyes locked on Jett.

Ashlyn isn’t sure yet, but she’s pretty convinced that life in California just became a lot easier to swallow.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

The call comes when Ashlyn is paddled out over a hundred yards beyond the shore, heading straight past the breakers.

Her phone is abandoned on the beach, stuffed into the toes of her worn white Vans alongside her socks and tossed into a careless pile with her board shorts, Hurley hoodie, snapback, and sunglasses. She has no idea it’s ringing at all.

From over a football field away, things on the shoreline are nothing more than silhouettes. Already, Ashlyn can feel her arms and core burning from the exertion of paddling out so far against the current, but she ignores it. She has been here before, and the ache throughout her body is always worth it the next day. Some of the best waves she catches are before the sun is fully risen. Around her, the ocean swells angrily. Most would consider the tide too dangerous or too unpredictable, and there is a chill in the air that nips at her face and neck. Still, she knows that the best is yet to come. She has been doing this since she was a kid, and she loves the waves best on cloudy, stormy mornings like these. The paddle out can be exhausting, and wipeouts can be pretty tough on these waters, but the ocean is otherwise abandoned. It’s a bit of a perfect storm. When few others would dare to venture into the cold waters off the California coast on a rainy, windy morning in late March, Ashlyn is eager to wake early and catch a few waves before the rest of the world is awake.

Morning surf sets have become Tobin and Ashlyn’s “thing.” Every weekday morning at 4:45, Ashlyn rises and slips on a bikini beneath her sweatpants and hoodie. By the team she has grabbed her board and slipped on a pair of shoes, Tobin is waiting on her back porch, ready for them to walk to the surf together. Wordlessly, they zip their wetsuits up and prepare for the swell. Neither Tobin nor Ashlyn speaks. They aren’t typically morning people, but both know that the best waves are always the ones that build before the rest of the world is up.

Ashlyn has found an odd comfort and peace in having Tobin at her side while they surf. Though they never say much, they don’t have to. Their friendship is not built on hours of conversation. They can say a lot by not saying anything at all. For instance, Ashlyn knows that when Tobin cuts hard edges or aggressively slices against the curve of the wave to catch spray off the white of the breaker, she feels like practice didn’t go her way. Tobin can read Ashlyn like a book. Most mornings, she’s fairly mellow. Her cuts are slightly lazy and effortless, always looking like she still has some waking up to do but clean and precise nonetheless. If she ever falls, Tobin knows it’s because Beckett had a bad night or Ali was having contractions and kept her up or she didn’t like what Galactica’s goalkeeper coach had to say at practice the day before. After they have surfed for a good hour—maybe two on a good day—and set their boards against Ali and Ashlyn’s fence, they hop in Ashlyn’s Jeep and head to a local cafe for coffee.

Ali understands fully that the hours Ashlyn shares with the surf and Tobin are hers alone. She doesn’t dare question her when she comes in around 7:30, a cup of coffee in hand and a tea or hot chocolate held out to offer Ali. If anything, Ali is glad that she has that time alone. She wouldn’t want to wake up that early anyway. It’s an unspoken agreement that Ashlyn’s surf sessions are hers and hers alone, the same way that Ashlyn knows that Ali’s thirty-minute-long showers are her alone time. It’s a good system. Ali doesn’t have to wake too early, and Ashlyn gets a few hours to herself.

It’s April Fool’s Day.

The fact is in the back of Ashlyn’s mind as she scans the horizon for her next opportunity for a wave. Beside her, Tobin straddles her board and squints to where the blue of the ocean and the deep velvet of the sky meet. Behind them, a golden glow is beginning to spread across the shoreline as the sun rises. Ashlyn knows that their time on the water is drawing to a close while her eyes drift from side to side. Ahead, a breaker begins to roll toward her and froth white at the tip. She immediately drops to her stomach on the board and begins to stroke toward it, her eyes narrowed and concentrated like she’s on the prowl.

She rides the wave all the way to the shore, and Tobin is not far behind her. They jog onto the sand together, their lips turning blue and skin erupting in goosebumps as the breeze off the water catches them half-naked while they exchange their wetsuits for sweatpants and long sleeves. Ashlyn takes note of the time—6:45—and the date—April 1—when she sees six missed calls from Ali’s number. There’s also a text message that she chooses to ignore until she’s had her coffee. They lean their boards against the fence and head toward the Jeep. It’s not until she has her black coffee with a milky foam on top warming her hands from a Styrofoam cup that she reads the message.

My water broke and if you’re not here in five minutes I’m calling an ambulance. Jerk. THIS IS NOT AN APRIL FOOL’S JOKE ASH. Please come quick.

Ashlyn looks at the difference in time between the time she received the message and the time she read it—it’s been 28 minutes. She gulps. Then suspicion creeps in. Ali specifically mentioned that her text was not an April Fool’s joke, and considering that Ali is horrible with pranks, it would be like her to pull a fast one and say that it wasn’t a fast one. Her heart rate returns to normal as she allows relief to sink in. Ali is a bad jokester. Of course this isn’t real. She would have heard the sirens from the ambulance, surely. And Ali would never be so straightforward in real life. She would dance around it for an hour at least, insisting that she wasn’t in labor and that it was just a few bad contractions until finally she was forced to admit that she actually was in labor and would be having the baby very shortly. Ali’s a baby with pain, a drama queen for lack of better terminology, and still wouldn’t be so accepting of the oncoming pain.

They are halfway back to their houses when Tobin’s phone rings. She answers it casually—Ash is mainly surprised that Tobin has her phone with her—and nods slowly a few times before holding out her phone and offering to Ashlyn. “It’s for you.” When she realizes that Ashlyn is clearly confused by all the chaos she heard on the other line, including a few indistinct swear words, she clarifies, “Your wife.”

Even the words make Ashlyn flinch. She knows she was wrong earlier—Ali was not pulling an April Fool’s prank on her. Timidly, she takes the phone from Tobin like it’s a hot potato and sucks in a sharp breath before deciding to answer. “Alex?”

“Where the fuck are you.”

Ash flinches. Ali’s words are less of a question and more of a demand. “I’m on my way, baby. I’m on my way.” She breaks into jog and tosses her half-full coffee into the trash as she does so. “How bad is it? How long? Who has Beckett?”

“It’s not too bad yet.” Ali’s voice says otherwise. She sounds like she now feels bad for being so short with Ash and wants to make it better before it gets worse again. Her tone is laced with both pain and regret. “And I called Kyle. He’s on his way to watch Beck. I’m just here with him now and this nurse is having to entertain him. I also forgot his glasses on our way out the door.”

She makes a mental note to grab Beckett’s glasses from the house when she does a speed change on her single stop before the hospital. “Don’t worry babe, I’ll grab them. Anything else we need?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice is rising again. “I was kind of busy trying not to swear in front of our son and get an ambulance to our house since I can’t exactly drive and the one neighbor we know was with you.” There is a pause, and Ashlyn can hear Ali breathing heavily on the other end of the call. She picks up her pace a little and finds that Tobin is matching it easily. “I don’t have the hospital bag, and the car is still at home with the car seat.”

“I swear to God I’m coming as fast as I can,” Ashlyn assures her as she hangs up and hands the phone back to Tobin.

Tobin nods and ducks her head as she gains more speed and pulls ahead of Ash. “Kell’s right.”

“What is Kell right about.” Ashlyn can barely get the words out. She’s out of breath and her lungs burn.

“Goalkeepers can be fast when they want to, but your endurance is waaayyyy off.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

Ashlyn thought that maybe Ali was reacting about the severity of the situation, but she’s clearly wrong. She comes sliding into the hospital only half an hour later—record time on her part, she thinks—and nearly wipes out on the shiny floors in front of the labor and delivery wing. The nurse at the front desk tells her that she had better hurry before the doctor decides to not let anyone else into the delivery room. It takes approximately three seconds for Ashlyn to pick her jaw up from the floor and send a quick nod to where she’s spotted Boxxy, who has moved back to California following her retirement, and Beckett. Kyle is probably with Ali, she thinks to herself as she begins running down the hallway with surprising speed.

It doesn’t occur to her that she didn’t ask what room Ali was in, and she stops in the middle of the hallway to listen. She glances three doors to her left, where someone inside is yelling curse words loudly and cursing whoever got her pregnant, then turns to her right and enters the silent first room she comes to. She’s chosen correctly. Inside, Kyle looks like he’s ready to pass out and Ali looks like she’s ready to kill Ashlyn and the doctor and Kyle and the nurse who keeps offering her ice chips.

“Fucking finally,” Kyle breathes as he takes a step back from the bed, releasing his hand and shaking it free from Ali’s death grip. “Take over, please.”

Ashlyn stays rooted to the ground for a beat or two before blinking heavily and taking Kyle’s place at the side of the bed. She smooths the sweaty strands of hair off Ali’s forehead and looks straight into her eyes. “How we doing?”

“This is happening too fast,” Ali answers, and Ashlyn can see that she’s scared. “It was supposed to be so different. You were supposed to be here and we were supposed to have hours to go through this and my mom doesn’t fly in until next week and it hurts too much and I want drugs.”

“I mean, if you really want hours of this, be my guest.” Ashlyn smiles, hoping it will make Ali crack a grin too. Her plan works. “But it’s okay. Babies come on their time, not ours, and I know it hurts—I can’t imagine how bad you just want this to be over—but you’re doing great, and our healthy baby girl is going to be in our arms sooner than you know.”

She’s right again. In just another ten minutes, a carbon copy of Ali is in the world, screaming and already making sure everyone knows she’s the princess here. Kyle jokes that Ashlyn can’t deal with two Alis. Ali jokes that the baby will be just like Ashlyn and end up super low-maintenance and easy to handle.

Ashlyn, on the other hand, can’t stop crying.

Their daughter is every bit as beautiful as her momma. She has dark hair, the same cowlick as Ali on the back of her head, and eyes that are already a cloudy almost-cinnamon. Her small button-nose is already crinkled up when someone is too loud, and her rosy lips are always pursed. Ali says the chubby cheeks are totally Ashlyn’s—and it takes a moment for Ashlyn to remember that she and her new daughter are not from the same gene pool, which makes her sad until Ali kisses her hand and nods knowingly at her. She doesn’t have a name yet, but Ashlyn can’t stop kissing her head and crying.

“I think we should name her Adler,” Ali says finally as the baby nurses a few hours later. “After your grandma’s brother.”

Ashlyn’s grandmother had a brother who was her best friend. Ashlyn had known him as her Uncle A. He had passed away in 2012, which would later come to be known as the worst year of Ashlyn’s life. She thinks that naming her daughter Adler would be the best thing she could ever do.

“Okay. But her middle name has to be Avery.”

Ali blinks in surprise. Avery would have been the name of the baby her mom had lost when Ali was 4. The idea seems a bit like it came out of left field, and she wonders if there’s an alternative meaning to it. Instead, she just nods. “Adler Avery Krieger-Harris. Addy.”

“Welcome to the world, Addy. We love you more than you will ever know.”

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

From between the goal posts, Ashlyn can still make out exactly where her family sits. It’s not because Beckett keeps shrilly yelling for his mommies or because Adler is on Kyle’s husband’s shoulders, which Ashlyn has told them a million times not to do because it makes her nervous. It’s not because her grandma and grandpa are wearing highlighter yellow jerseys—Ashlyn can’t explain why; they said they wanted to be “different” and “noticeable” at the World Cup so she could see them from the goal. It’s not because Deb has an American flag the size of Texas hanging over the railing, either. It’s because of the way Ali runs to them after Kelley scores the fourth goal of the game—her third, making it her first hat trick in international play—and the three short whistles signal the end of the 2018 World Cup final.

Ashlyn catches Ali in record time and swings her into a bear hug seconds before they are being jumped on by their family. They kiss as they are closed in on from all angles. Beckett is clinging to Ali’s leg and Addy is placed on Ashlyn’s hip. Kyle barely has a voice, but he can’t stop chanting “U-S-A! U-S-A!” alongside the rest of the stadium.

As for Ali, she can still make out every emotion and every muttered word from Ashlyn’s lip. The noise around them is deafening, but Ashlyn’s eyes speak louder than it all.

“I could not ask for more,” they seem to say.

And for the first of many times in her life, Ali can truly believe in happy endings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to write more in the future, but it became a bit taxing to write in hopes that you would all love it and I'd feel like a better person or like I was worth more if I got a lot of comments. That being said, I think I'll take a little break, but I don't think you've seen the last of me! Thank you all so so much.


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